:  R  K  E  L  E  Y^ 

BRARY 

IVERSITY  OF 
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POEMS. 


POEMS 


CLEMENT    C.    MOORE,    LL.  D. 


Et  sermone  opus  est  modo  tristi,  saepe  jocoso. — HOR. 


NEW  YORK : 
BARTLETT    &    WELFORD, 

7  ASTOR  HOUSE 

1844. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1844,  by 

CLEMENT  C.  MOORE, 

in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Southern  District  of 
New  York. 


WM.   VAN  NORDEN,   PRINTER. 


PREFACE, 


MY  DEAR  CHILDREN: 

IN  compliance  with  your  wishes,  I  here  present  you 
with  a  volume  of  verses,  written  by  me  at  different 
periods  of  my  life. 

You  may  perceive  that  the  pieces  contained  in  it  are 
not  arranged  in  the  order  of  the  times  at  which  they 
were  composed;  for,  not  only  would  it  be  impossible 
for  me  now  to  make  such  an  arrangement  with  precision, 
but  it  was  thought  best  that  the  serious  should  be  inter 
mingled  with  the  gay,  and  the  shorter  with  the  longer 
compositions. 

"142 


VI  PREFACE. 

I  have  not  made  a  selection  from  among  my  verses 
of  such  as  are  of  any  peculiar  cast ;  but  have  given 
you  the  melancholy  and  the  lively,  the  serious,  the 
sportive,  and  even  the  trifling ;  such  as  relate  solely  to 
our  own  domestic  circle,  and  those  of  which  the  sub 
jects  take  a  wider  range.  For,  as  you  once  persuaded 
me  to  sit  for  my  portrait,  which  was  the  occasion  of  one 
of  the  pieces  in  this  collection  ;  so,  I  flatter  myself  that 
you  will  be  pleased  to  have  as  true  a  picture  as  possible 
of  your  father's  mind,  upon  which  you  and  your  chil 
dren  may  look  when  I  shall  be  removed  from  this  world. 
Were  I  to  offer  you  nothing  but  what  is  gay  and  lively, 
you  well  know  that  the  deepest  and  keenest  feelings  of 
your  father's  heart  would  not  be  portrayed.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  nothing  but  what  is  serious  or  sad  had  been 
presented  to  your  view,  an  equally  imperfect  character 
of  his  mind  would  have  been  exhibited.  For  you  are 
all  aware  that  he  is  far  from  following  the  school  of 
Chesterfield  with  regard  to  harmless  mirth  and  merri 
ment  ;  and  that,  in  spite  of  all  the  cares  and  sorrows  of 
this  life,  he  thinks  we  are  so  constituted  that  a  good 
honest  hearty  laugh,  which  conceals  no  malice,  and  is 


PREFACE.  Vll 

excited  by  nothing  corrupt,  however  ungenteel  it  may 
be,  is  healthful  both  to  body  and  mind.  And  it  is  one 
of  the  benevolent  ordinances  of  Providence,  that  we  are 
thus  capable  of  these  alternations  of  sorrow  and  trouble 
with  mirth  and  gladness.  Another  reason  why  the  mere 
trifles  in  this  volume  have  not  been  withheld,  is,  that 
such  things  have  been  often  found  by  me  to  afford  greater 
k  pleasure  than  what  was  by  myself  esteemed  of  more 
worth. 

I  do  not  pay  my  readers  so  ill  a  compliment  as  to 
offer  the  contents  of  this  volume  to  their  view  as  the 
mere  amusements  of  my  idle  hours ;  effusions  thrown 
off  without  care  or  meditation,  as  though  the  refuse  of 
my  thoughts  were  good  enough  for  them.  On  the  con 
trary,  some  of  the  pieces  have  cost  me  much  time  and 
thought ;  and  I  have  composed  them  all  as  carefully  and 
correctly  as  I  could. 

I  wish  you  to  bear  in  mind  that  nothing  which  may 
appear  severe  or  sarcastic  in  this  collection,  is  pointed 
at  any  individual.  Where  vice  or  absurdity  is  held  up 


Vlll  PKEFACE. 

to  view,  it  is  the  fault,  and  not  any  particular  person 
that  is  pointed  at. 

Notwithstanding  the  partiality  of  you  and  my  friends, 
I  feel  much  reluctance  to  publish  this  volume  ;  and  have 
much  doubt  as  to  its  merit.  Had  she  who  wrote  the 
lines  signed  "  La  Mere  de  Cinq  Erifans,"  and  those 
upon  the  death  of  your  cousin,  Susan  Moore,  which  ap 
pear  in  this  collection,  been  still  spared  to  me,  her 
native  taste  and  judgment  would  have  afforded  me  great 
assistance  in  putting  together  this  little  work,  and  would 
have  enabled  me  to  act  with  much  more  confidence  than 
I  now  can.  But  whatever  be  the  merit  of  the  offering 
which  I  here  make  to  you,  receive  and  look  upon  it  as 
a  token  of  the  affection  of  your  father. 

C.  C.  M. 
MARCH,  1844. 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 


A  TRIP  TO  SARATOGA,      -  15 
To  MY  CHILDREN,  with  my  Portrait,  65 
To  THE  FASHIONABLE  PART  OF  MY  YOUNG  COUN 
TRYWOMEN,  69 
THE  MISCHIEVOUS  MUSE — Translation,  74 

LlNES   WRITTEN   AFTER   A   FALL    OF    SNOW,  80 

To  YOUNG  LADIES  WHO  ATTENDED  PHILOSOPHI 
CAL  LECTURES,       -  83 
ON  SEEING  MY  NAME  WRITTEN  IN  THE  SAND  OF 

THE    SEA- SHORE,         -  88 

ON    COWPER    THE    POET,       -  89 

To  PETROSA,  92 

TRANSLATION  OF  AN  ODE  OF  METASTASIO,         -  95 


X  CONTENTS. 

A  SONG,                                                              -  101 

OLD  DOBBIN,  -  104 
APOLOGY  FOR  NOT  ACCEPTING  AN  INVITATION  TO 

A  BALL,     -  105 

ANSWER  TO  THE  ABOVE,  by  Mr.  Bard,       -         -  109 

TRANSLATION  OF  A  CHORUS  IN  AESCHYLUS,  -  111 
LlNES  ACCOMPANYING  SOME  BALLS  SENT  TO  A 

FRAGMENT  FAIR,  -  114 
To  A  LADY,  -  118 
A  VISIT  FROM  ST.  NICHOLAS,  -  -  -  124 
FROM  A  HUSBAND  TO  HIS  WIFE,  -  -  128 
LINES  BY  MY  LATE  WIFE,  written  in  an  Al 
bum,  .  133 

LlNES    ACCOMPANYING   A    BUNCH   OF    FLOWERS,     -  135 

ANSWER  TO  THE  ABOVE,  by  Mr.  Hone,     -         -  137 

LlNES     WRITTEN    AFTER     A    SEASON    OF    YELLOW 

FEVER,  -  -  -  139 

To  THE  NYMPHS  OF  MOUNT  HARMONY,  -  -  148 

To  A  YOUNG  LADY,  ON  HER  BIRTH-DAY,  -  -  154 
ON  RECEIVING  FROM  A  FRIEND  A  CARICATURE 

CAST  OF  PAGANINI,  .  157 

THE  ORGANIST,  -  -  .  .  159 


CONTENTS.  xi 

THE  PIG  AND  THE  ROOSTER,         -            -        .  165 
LINES  TO  A   YOUNG    LADY   FOR    VALENTINE'S 

DAY,                                   -  170 

THE  WINE  DRINKER,        -             .             -         -  174 

THE  WATER  DRINKER,     •             .             .         -  183 
LINES  SENT  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY,  WITH  A  PAIR  OF 

GLOVES,     -  193 
FAREWELL — In  answer  to  a  young  lady's  invita 
tion  to  join  a  party   of  pleasure  on  an 

excursion  to  the  country,    -             .         -  195 

LINES  ON  THE   SISTERS  OF  CHARITY,         -         .  198 

To  MY  DAUGHTER,  ON  HER  MARRIAGE,      -        .  204 
LINES  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  Miss  SUSAN   MOORE, 

by  my  late  wife,     -                          .  209 

To  SOUTHEY,         .....  212 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA 


A     TRIP     TO     SARATOGA 


PART  FIRST. 


IT  was  the  opening  spring-time  of  the  year, 
When  captives  struggle  most  to  break  their  chains, 
And  brooks  let  loose,  and  swelling  buds,  appear, 
And  youthful  blood  seems  starting  from  the  veins, 
When  Henry  Mildmay,  in  his  breakfast  hall, 
Had  press'd  good  morrow  on  each  daughter's  lip, 
And,  seated  at  the  board,  his  children  all, 
By  concert,  urg'd  him  for  a  summer  trip. 


16  A   TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 

"  One  at  a  time,  for  pity's  sake,  my  dears," 
Half  laughing,  half  provok'd,  at  length  he  said, 
"  This  babylonish  din  about  my  ears 
Confounds  my  brain,  and  nearly  splits  my  head." 

And  well  might  Henry  of  the  rout  complain 
That  broke  the  comfort  of  his  morning  meal ; 
For  tongues,  as  wild  as  colts  that  spurn  the  rein, 
Maintain'd,  in  loud  debate,  a  ceaseless  peal. 
Three  clamorous  girls,  as  many  boisterous  boys, 
All  straining  at  their  topmost  voice  to  speak, 
In  ev'ry  tone,  from  childhood's  piping  noise 
To  incipient  manhood's  mingled  growl  and  squeak, 
With  two  cag'd  songsters  of  Canary's  brood, 
Both  emulous  to  join  their  thrilling  strains  — 
All  this  might  well  provoke  the  gentlest  mood, 
And  raise  a  tumult  in  the  coolest  brains. 

"  Why  should  you  wish,"  continued  he,  "  to  roam, 
In  fancied  pleasure's  quest,  the  country  round, 
And  leave  the  solid  comforts  of  your  home, 
Where  all  that  reason  can  desire  is  found  ? 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 


17 


'Tis  not  for  health  impair'd,  or  hearts  depress'd, 

Or  spirits  burden'd  by  a  load  of  care : 

Your  minds  require  no  tone- restoring  rest, 

Your  bodies  need  no  change  of  scene  or  air. 

This  lawn,  these  trees  and  shrubs,  your  senses  cheer 

When  summer  heats  prevail,  and  close  in  view 

A  noble  city  rises  ;  so  that  here 

You  may  enjoy  the  town  and  country  too." 

"  Oh  dear  papa,"  cried  Kate,  the  eldest  child, 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  you  are  mistaken  quite ; 

We  are  sick  to  death  of  home,  and  almost  wild 

Of  somewhat  else  on  earth  to  get  a  sight. 

How  often  on  your  accents  have  we  hung 

When  of  your  youth's  adventures  you  have  told ; 

And  why  should  not  we  store  our  minds,  while  young, 

With  things  of  which  to  think  and  speak  when  old  ? 

Why  should  we  dose  at  home,  when  all  the  world, 

With  former  times  compar'd,  seems  rous'd  from  sleep  ; 

In  steamboats  dashing,  or  in  rail-cars  hurl'd, 

Or  in  swift  vessels  bounding  o'er  the  deep  ? 

How  would  it  make  our  snail-pac'd  fathers  stare 

To  see  the  rate  at  which  we  go  j  and  soon, 


18  A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 

I  trust,  we  shall  ascend  the  fields  of  air, 

And  make  our  yearly  visits  to  the  moon  "  — 

"  Yes,  to  the  paradise  of  fools,"  cried  he, 

"This  gadding  generation's  proper  place. 

I  do  protest  it  makes  me  mad  to  see 

The  restless  rambling  of  the  present  race. 

NOW,  rough  mechanics  leave  their  work  undone, 

And,  with  pert  milliners  and  prentice  youth, 

To  some  gay,  throng'd  resort  away  they  run, 

To  cure  dyspepsia  or  ennui,  forsooth  ! 

That  idle,  pamper'd  wealth  should  gladly  haste 

To  try  the  traveller's  miseries,  may  be  right : 

The  sickly  palate  needs  some  pungent  taste 

To  cure  the  nausea  that  mere  sweets  excite. 

Nor  would  I  honor  from  the  man  withhold 

Whom  searching  science  bids  to  distant  shores  ; 

Who,  to  extend  her  empire,  constant,  bold, 

The  works  of  Nature  and  of  Art  explores. 

Much  pleasure,  too,  there  is  in  change  of  scene, 

When  streams  glide  smoothly,  and  the  skies  are  bright ; 

The  towering  mountains  and  the  valleys  green, 

Impress  the  thoughtful  mind  with  pure  delight. 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA.  19 


But,  that  the  highest  pleasures  which  we  know 
In  all  these  idle  jaunts,  I  will  maintain, 
Is  hope  that  lures  us  when  at  first  we  go, 
And  heartfelt  joy  at  coming  home  again." 

"  Why  dearest  father,  sure  your  reasoning's  scope 
But  tends  your  very  purpose  to  destroy  ; 
What  happier  life  than  one  led  on  by  hope, 
And  which,  at  last,  concludes  with  heartfelt  joy  ?" 

"  Poh,  poh,  what  nonsense  !  "  was  the  sole  reply 
That  to  this  brisk  retort  her  father  made, 
With  half  a  smile,  and  twinkle  of  the  eye 
That  spoke  —  "  You  are  a  darling  saucy  jade." 

When  dear-lov'd  daughters,  for  some  trivial  prize, 
Against  a  widow 'd  father's  voice  contend, 
How  fierce  soe'er  the  strife  may  seem  to  rise, 
All  know  in  whose  behalf  it  soon  will  end. 
The  promise  worded  in  a  doubtful  guise,  — 
"  Well,  well,  soon  as  the  season  comes,  we'll  see" 
Brought  instant  pleasure's  lightning  to  their  eyes, 
And  fill'd  each  bounding  heart  with  hopeful  glee. 


*0  A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 

At  length,  that  all  should  go,  it  was  agree'd  ; 

Though  Henry  knew  full  well  the  weighty  charge 

'T  would  be,  on  purse  and  patience  both,  to  lead 

Afar  from  home  a  troop  so  wild  and  large. 

But  all  their  pleasure  would  be  turn'd  to  pain, 

If  one  or  more,  selected  from  the  rest, 

Were  doom'd,  all  sad  and  quiet,  to  remain, 

While  they  with  constant  change  and  chance  were  blest. 

For  this  was  all  they  wish'd,  nor  did  they  care 

[f  they  went  North  or  South,  or  East  or  West  ; 

And  gladly  left  their  father  to  declare 

Which  course  he  deem'd  the  pleasantest  and  best. 


soon,  without  a  murmur,  'twas  resolv'd 
The  noble  Hudson's  waters  to  ascend, 
When  vernal  clouds  and  damps  should  be  dissolv'd 
And  summer's  balmy  breath  their  voyage  befriend. 

Fair  cloudless  day-spring  of  our  early  youth  ! 
How  seem  we  then  to  think  'twill  ne'er  be  night  ! 
How  ev'ry  fancied  form  we  take  for  truth  ! 
How  all  the  distance  gleams  with  roseate  light  ! 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 

Nor  let  foreboding  Prudence  sigh  with  pain 

To  see  the  dangers  of  youth's  rash  career, 

Nor  grieve  that  brightest  hopes  may  beam  in  vain, 

Soon  to  be  quench'd  in  disappointment's  tear. 

In  bounteous  Nature's  works  we  ever  see 

Apparent  waste,  and  fruitless  efforts  find : 

How  many  a  blossom  of  the  goodliest  tree 

Is  idly  scatter'd  by  the  wanton  wind  ! 

And  are  these  fruitless  flowers  abortive  quite  ? 

Has  Nature  bid  them  bloom  and  fall  in  vain  ? 

No ;  ere  they  perish,  they  impart  delight ; 

And  plenteous  fruits  in  embryo  still  remain. 

If  dearest  hopes  that  fill  the  youthful  mind, 

And  joys  of  fairest  promise,  end  in  gloom, 

Yet  still,  successive  hopes  we  ever  find, 

And  other  joys,  upspringing  in  their  room. 

No,  let  not  frigid  age  regard  with  scorn 

The  youthful  spirit's  warm  outbreakings  wild  : 

How  many  a  hero  to  the  world  is  born 

Whose  deeds  are  but  the  reckless  darings  of  a  child  ! 


21 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA 


PART  SECOND. 


THE  sun  had  reach'd,  at  length,  his  northern  goal ; 
Fierce  wintry  storms  were  chang'd  to  summer  showers ; 
Soft  zephyrs  through  the  rustling  foliage  stole ; 
And  dews  of  evening  cheer'd  the  drooping  flowers. 
The  day  was  fix'd  on  when  they  should  depart  j 
And  all  their  buoyant  spirits  were  alive, 
Like  high-bred  coursers  straining  on  the  start, 
Distracted  for  the  moment  to  arrive. 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 

All  their  equipments  had  the  young  folk  made ; 
And  gather'd  such  a  vast  and  varied  store 
As  would  suffice  a  merchant  for  his  trade, 
Or  fit  them  all  the  world  to  travel  o'er. 

"  Young  travellers,"  said  their  father,  "all  are  so: 
Learn,  learn,  betimes,  my  children,  to  beware 
Of  grasping  much,  while  through  this  world  you  go ; 
You  only  gain  embarrassment  and  care. 
Believe  me,  'twill  require  your  keenest  looks 
To  guard  the  smallest  parcel  you  may  need : 
Then  leave  your  extra  wardrobes,  and  your  books, 
Scarce  one  of  which  you'll  have  the  time  to  read." 

Too  happy  were  their  spirits,  to  complain ; 
And  'twas  agreed  that  many  a  coat  and  vest 
And  well-fill'd  trunk  and  basket  should  remain, 
And  ev'ry  bandbox  too,  the  traveller's  pest. 
To  Charles,  the  eldest  son,  it  was  assign'd 
To  watch  the  baggage  ;   he  wus  strong  and  large  ; 
A.nd  Kate,  with  all  her  rattling,  sweet  and  kind, 
Had  little  Sue  and  Meg  beneath  her  charge. 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 

William  and  John  were  of  that  age  when  boys 
Are  rude  in  mind  and  awkward  in  their  forms  ; 
When  love  of  fun,  of  playful  strife  and  noise, 
Seems  the  one  passion  which  their  bosom  warms. 

The  long  expected  day  arriv'd  at  last. 

The  oppressive  atmosphere  was  damp  and  warm. 

The  horison,  in  the  West,  was  overcast. 

The  sky  foretold  an  evening  thunder  storm. 

Their  father  said  the  jaunt  should  be  deferr'd 
Until  the  storm  was  o'er  and  skies  were  clear ; 
And,  of  his  children's  murmurs,  not  a  word, 
To  swerve  him  from  his  purpose,  would  he  hear : 
He  thought,  in  quest  of  pleasure,  'twas  absurd 
To  rush  on  scenes  of  peril  and  of  fear. 
Not  so  to  the  youthful  troop ;  to  them,  delay 
Of  promis'd  pleasure  was  a  serious  pain: 
No  threaten'd  danger  could  have  stopp'd  their  way 
They  look'd  on  distant  trouble  with  disdain. 


26  A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 


But,  long  ere  night,  the  boded  storm  growl'd  hoarse ; 
Still  gathering  rage,  more  threat'ning  and  more  loud. 
The  southern  breeze,  that  strove  to  stay  its  course, 
To  fury  fann'd  the  dense  and  lurid  cloud  — 
"  Down  with  the  windows,  run,  here  comes  the  gust, 
Quick,    quick,   the   wind   has  veer'd  —  See !    what    a 

flash ! " 

Scarce  Henry  spoke,  when  came  the  smothering  dust, 
A  torrent  next,  and  thunder,  crash  on  crash : 
No  interval  between  the  light  and  sound ; 
So  sharp  and  near  was  ev'ry  awful  stroke. 
From  cloud  to  cloud  the  echoes  roll'd  around, 
And,  far  off,  into  angry  murmurs  broke. 
Good  Henry,  with  a  look  devoid  of  fear, 
His  children,  from  the  walls  and  windows  stay'd; 
Yet  taught  them  not  to  cower  at  danger  near, 
But  gaze  upon  the  lightning  as  it  play'd. 

'Tis  well  that  violence  soon  spends  its  power ; 
And  well  that  we  forget  our  fear  and  pain. 
The  storm  that  rag'd  was  but  a  summer-shower  ; 
And  all,  ere  long,  was  peace  and  joy  again. 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 


27 


The  birds  sang  out ;  the  setting  sun  was  bright ; 
The  diamond  rain-drops  glitter'd  on  the  green ; 
The  clouds  were  stain'd  with  gorgeous  tints  of  light ; 
A  lofty  rainbow  crown'd  the  magic  scene. 
The  morn  succeeding  shone  forth  heav'nly  fair : 
The  western  breeze  was  cool,  but  gently  blew. 
Some  pearl-bright  clouds  sailed  softly  through  the  air, 
And  made  more  deep  the  deep  cerulean  hue. 
None  can  describe  the  bustle,  noise  and  rout, 
The  various  sounds  from  ev'ry  throat  that  pour'd, 
Till  fairly  for  the  steamer  they'd  set  out, 
And,  bag  and  baggage,  all  were  safe  aboard. 

"  We're  off  at  length,"  exclaim'd  the  joyous  band ; 
For  now  the  steamer  ceas'd  its  hissing  roar ; 
The  paddles  slowly  plash'd,  on  either  hand, 
To  draw  the  vessel  gently  from  the  shore. 

And  now  the  steam  breath'd  out  in  greater  force ; 
The  gallant  boat  was  fairly  under  way ; 
In  majesty  she  shap'd  her  rapid  course — 
Were  ever  folk  so  happy  and  so  gay ! 


A    TEIP    TO    SARATOGA. 

• 

Dense  with  a  living  mass  the  vessel  teem'd ; 

In  search  of  pleasure,  some,  and  some,  of  health ; 

Maids  who  of  love  and  matrimony  dream'd, 

And  speculators  keen,  in  haste  for  wealth ; 

Old  men   smooth  shorn ;    lads  with  long   beards   and 

rough ; 

Rich  men  ill  clad,  and  poor  ones  smart  and  clean ; 
True  honest  men,  with  looks  and  language  gruff; 
And  rogues  with  speeches  soft,  and  smiles  between. 

Some  woman  too  would  catch  the  ear  and  eye, 
Striving,  with  might  and  main,  her  brat  to  quiet, 
Who  paid  its  mother's  scolding  lullaby 
With  kicks  and  jerks  and  still  a  louder  riot. 
The  smiling  maids,  in  flower-lin'd  bonnets  drest, 
Seem'd,  to  the  careless  gaze,  all  fair  alike : 
No  one,  at  first,  was  likely  to  arrest 
The  wand'ring  eye,  or  transient  view  to  strike. 
So,  clust'ring  cherries  on  the  tree  appear, 
At  distance  seen,  all  ripe,  and  plump,  and  sound ; 
'Tis  not  till  gather'd,  and  examin'd  near, 
That  many  a  canker'd  blemish  may  be  found. 


A     TRIP     TO    SARATOGA 


PART  THIUD. 


LONG,  on  the  deck,  the  living  chaos  stirr'd, 
Before  each  element  could  find  its  place ; 
While  unexpected  greetings  oft  were  heard, 
And  oft  appear'd  some  unexpected  face. 
With  much-ado,  for  Henry  and  his  Kate 
A  place  to  seat  themselves,  at  length,  was  found. 
The  rest,  with  wonder  and  with  joy  elate, 
At  ev'ry  novel  sight,  came  clust'ring  round. 

2* 


30 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 


Kate  lov'd  to  gaze  on  earth,  and  wave,  and  sky 
The  woods,  the  river's  rocky  margin  steep. 
The  boys  lov'd  best  to  watch  the  wild-fowl  fly, 
To  see  the  fishes  from  the  water  leap. 
Henry,  on  all  within  and  all  without, 
Attentive  look'd,  and  frequently,  the  while, 
Some  object  to  his  children  pointed  out, 
That  might  instruction  give,  or  call  a  smile. 

"  See  that  plump- visag'd,  snug  and  tidy  wife, 

Who  keeps  all  right  and  tight,  where'er  she  goes ; 

The  busy,  bustling  habit  of  whose  life, 

In  ev'ry  look,  and  word,  and  act,  she  shows. 

These  are  the  dames  whose  angry  call 

Makes  servants  tremble,  and  brave  husbands  laugh. 

Let  them  alone  ye  witlings ;  after  all, 

Nine  out  of  ten,  they  are   the  better  half" 

"  Do  see,"  cried  Charles,  "  that  little  swarthy  man, 
In  long  black  boots,  who  holds  his  book  so  near 
To  his  snub-nose  ;  help  laughing  if  you  can  " — 
"  Beware,  my  son,  at  strangers  how  you  sneer," 


31 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 

Replied  his  father,  "  little  do  you  dream 
How  bright  a  mind  within  that  form  resides. 
The  rough  pearl-oyster,  thus,  would  worthless  seem 
To  one  unsconcious  of  the  gem  it  hides. 

"  Smile,  if  you  will,  at  those  two  pallid  youths, 
Hard-by,  in  converse  close,  with  heads  together, 
Grasping  at  shades  of  metaphysic  truths, 
Tn  hopes  to  solve  some  knotty  if  or  whether. 
They  come  for  health ;  yet  there  they  sit,  by  th'  hour, 
Discussing  loud,  from  some  dull  schoolman's  book, 
What  is  or  is  not  in  th'  Almighty's  power ; 
And,  meanwhile,  neither  of  them  deigns  to  look 
Upon  th'  Almighty's  works  which,  all  around, 
With  his  own  radiant  impress  ever  shine  ; 
Where  health  of  mind  and  body  may  be  found, 
And  things  to  feed  the  soul  with  thoughts  divine." 

Somewhat  retir'd  there  was  another  group  — 
A  mother  with  two  children  and  her  spouse. 
They  could  not  fail,  in  Henry  and  his  troop, 
Deep  interest  and  compassion  to  arouse. 


32  A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 

She  too  for  health  was  seeking ;  beauteous,  young ; 
A  hectic  flush  but  rendered  her  more  fair. 
Her  girls,  unconscious,  round  their  father  hung, 
Who  strove,  in  vain,  to  hide  his  anxious  air. 
'Twas  sad  to  see  the  silent  tear-drop  stain 
Her  lovely  cheek,  as  on  her  girls  she  smil'd, 
With  mix'd  emotions  that  confess'd  how  vain 
She  deem'd,  at  heart,  the  hope  that  oft  beguil'd. 
Scarce,  Henry  from  his  children  could  conceal 
The  long-quell'd  anguish  in  his  breast  that  rose  ; 
Or  hide  the  tear  that  down  his  cheek  would  steal 
At  sight  of  what  awoke  his  own  past  woes. 
Yet  still,  he  ceas'd  not  there  to  turn  his  eyes ; 
Nor  would  he  blot  the  mem'ry  of  the  past. 
Strange  !  that  our  keenest  pangs  we  seem  to  prize, 
And  dwell  on  early  sorrows  to  the  last ! 

It  was  relief  to  view  a  happier  sight ; 
A  lovely  infant  in  its  mother's  arms, 
Recovering  from  disease  whose  threat'ning  blight 
Had  rack'd  her  tender  heart  with  dire  alarms. 
To  watch  each  fav'ring  sign,  she  sat  intent, 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA.  33 

And  joy'd  to  see  the  babe  cheer  up  the  while. 
With  heart  too  full  to  speak,  her  head  she  bent, 
And  gave  the  little  creature  smile  for  smile. 
Kate  would  have  given  half  her  life,  to  snatch 
The  infant  from  its  mother's  fond  embrace ; 
Its  outstretch'd  hand  \vithin  her  own  to  catch, 
And  print  a  thousand  kisses  on  its  face. 

There  was  a  towering  manly-treading  lass, 

With  long  sharp  nose  and  philosophic  look ; 

Her  brain,  of  borrow'd  thoughts  a  mingled  mass, 

Who  valued  nought  that  was  not  in  a  book. 

Heav'n  help  the  mortal  doom'd  by  cruel  fate 

To  bide  the  wordy  torrent  of  her  tongue  ! 

This  precious  creature  fasten'd  on  our  Kate 

All  fearless  of  the  woe  that  o'er  her  hung. 

The  pure  unblemish'd  native  light  that  beam'd 

From  Kate's  sweet  face  had  caught  this  damsel's  eyes ; 

A  subject,  to  her  vanity,  she  seem'd, 

Whom  she  might  safely  deign  to  patronize. 


34  A    TRIP   TO    SARATOGA. 

When  to  the  enchanting  Highland  scene  they  came, 

One  would  have  thought  by  book  she  knew  it  all ; 

For  ev'ry  hill  she  found  a  classic  name, 

And  recognis'd  each  rill  and  waterfall. 

In  long  citations,  such  a  peal  was  rung 

As  serv'd  our  helpless  victim  to  astound. 

She  wish'd  at  heart  that  Scott  had  never  sung, 

Or  that  the  Lady  of  the  Lake  were  drown'd. 

At  length,  when  dinner's  stirring  summons  rang, 
To  Kate,  no  music  e'er  had  such  a  charm ; 
No  bird  let  loose  more  lightly  ever  sprang 
Than  she,  to  catch  her  father's  ready  arm. 

Too  clearly,  by  the  tumult  which  ensued, 
The  innate  selfishness  of  man  was  shown ; 
Careless  of  other's  comfort,  each  pursued, 
With  all  his  force,  th'  attainment  of  his  own. 
But,  with  our  gentle  Henry,  'twas  not  so : 
Th'  impatience  of  his  children  he  withstood : 
He  said,  their  meal  'twere  better  to  forego 
Than  show  themselves  both  gluttonous  and  rude. 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA.  35 

While  all  seem'd  mad  with  hunger  and  with  thirst, 
He  mov'd  with  measur'd  step  and  tranquil  air  : 
The  vacant  place  he  took  which  offer'd  first ; 
Nor  seem'd  he,  for  himself,  to  have  a  care. 

What  is  the  real  gentleman,  but  he 

Who  from  the  path  of  kindness  never  strays  ? 

Who  truly  is  what  he  appears  to  be  ? 

And  feels  at  heart  the  goodness  he  displays  ? 

The  outside  show  of  elegance  and  ease, 

The  mere  result  of  study  and  of  art, 

Has  pow'r,  awhile,  the  eye  and  ear  to  please ; 

But  real  worth  alone  can  reach  the  heart. 

The  one,  like  empty  sounds  that  swell  and  roll, 

Conveys  no  clear  sensation  to  the  mind. 

The  other  reaches  to  the  inmost  soul, 

Like  dulcet  strains  with  touching  words  combin'd. 

Soon  as  the  comfortless  repast  was  o'er, 
They  gladly  left  the  cabin's  breath  confin'd, 
And,  mounting  to  the  open  deck,  once  more, 
Inhal'd,  with  joy,  the  cool  refreshing  wind. 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 


Their  spirits  soon  began  more  gay  to  rise ; 
Toward  all  around  they  felt  in  social  mood. 
For,  though  blue-stockings  may  the  thought  despise, 
JTis  sure  the  mind  gains  health  from  solid  food. 

But  soon  Kate  saw  that  all  her  joy  must  end. 

"  Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  !  "  thought  she,  "  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Here  comes  my  everlasting  learned  friend  — 

Well,  well,  Heav'n  grant  I  ne'er  may  be  a  blue  ! " 

Ah  no  !  her  ev'ry  word  and  ev'ry  look 

Proclaim'd  that  no  such  fate  she  need  to  dread  ; 

Her  thoughts  and  feelings,  drawn  from  Nature's  book, 

Shed  simple  truth's  pure  light  o'er  all  she  said. 

In  vain  she  strives  to  shun  the  watchful  gaze ; 

Now  clings  more  closely  to  her  father's  side ; 

Now  starts  away  to  chase  some  child  that  strays ; 

And  now  she  seems  to  warn,  and  now  to  chide. 

So  full  of  anxious  care  her  thoughts  appear, 

That  interruption  would  be  downright  rude. 

Yet  still,  my  lady  blue  kept  ever  near ; 

And  still,  like  sportsman  keen,  her  game  pursued ; 


A   TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 

For  Kate,  who  wish'd  not  ever  to  offend, 
A  list'ner  of  no  common  value  prov'd. 
But  Henry  could  no  more  her  steps  attend ; 
And,  wearied,  to  a  vacant  seat  he  mov'd. 
When  by  her  father  she  had  plac'd  her  chair, 
And  had  the  children  safely  station'd  round, 
Her  kind  protectress  fail'd  not  to  be  there  ; 
And  nasal  measures  soon  began  to  sound. 

As  through  this  world  we  wend  our  weary  way, 
So  intermingled  are  the  good  and  ill, 
That  much  is  found  our  troubles  to  allay ; 
This  thought  at  least,  they  might  le  greater  still. 
Declaimers  seldom  for  an  answer  wait ; 
At  most,  but  for  a  careless  yes  or  no  ; 
Thus  Heav'n  is  pleas'd,  in  mercy,  to  abate 
What  might  have  been  the  wretched  list'ner's  wo. 
But  Kate,  in  truth,  unfeign'd  attention  paid ; 
And  scarce  could  she  her  merriment  control, 
While  lurking  smiles  around  her  features  play'd 
And  furtive  glances  toward  her  father  stole. 
Long  did  th'  untiring  speaker's  voice  resound 


37 


38 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 


With  Southey's  wonders  and  Montgomery's  charms ; 
Till,  sudden,  she  beheld,  on  glancing  round, 
Her  patient  list'ner  —  lock'd  in  Morpheus'  arms. 

The  angel  look  of  sweet  unsconcious  Kate 

Proclaim'd  how  little  dream'd  she  to  offend, 

Or  change  to  bitter  wrath  and  vengeful  hate 

The  seeming  friendship  of  a  seeming  friend. 

Her  father  could  have  burst  with  glee  outright, 

To  see  the  fury  of  the  damsel's  eyes ; 

For,  long  since,  to  his  keen  experienc'd  sight, 

She  was  a  smiling  vixen  in  disguise. 

Yet  strove  he,  for  his  daughter,  peace  to  make  j 

Pleaded  the  engine's  ceaseless  weary  stroke ; 

How  early  she  was  call'd,  that  morn,  to  wake ; 

And  of  her  youth  and  inexperience  spoke. 

This,  to  a  lady  of  a  certain  age, 

Appear'd  a  sly  premeditated  blow ; 

Away  she  turn'd,  with  inward  glowing  rage, 

And  parted  from  her  friends,  a  bitter  foe. 


A    TRIP   TO    SARATOGA. 

The  morning  mist  that  dims  an  op'ning  rose 
Imparts  new  beauty,  ere  it  melts  away. 
And  thus,  our  sleeper  woke  from  soft  repose 
With  features  brighten'd  and  with  looks  more  gay. 

But  keenest  pleasure  soon  must  loose  its  tone, 
When  that's  the  only  end  we  have  in  view. 
This,  by  our  younger  travellers  was  shown ; 
Who  now  began  to  pant  for  somewhat  new  ; 
To  ask  the  distance  they  had  still  to  go ; 
At  .what  abode  they  were  to  pass  the  night ; 
Their  progress  seem'd  continually  more  slow ; 
They  wish'd  that  Albany  would  come  in  sight. 

At  length,  the  distant  spires  to  view  arise ; 
And  now  the  dreaded  shoal  awakes  their  fears. 
The  pilot,  with  firm  hand  and  watchful  eyes, 
The  vessel  through  the  channel  safely  steers. 

Fierce  rose  the  strife,  the  tumult  and  the  noise, 
When  first  the  steamer  touch'd  her  destin'd  shore. 


40  A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 

On  rush'd  the  hack-men  and  the  baggage-boys. 

The  safety-valve  sent  forth  its  angry  roar. 

In  terror  and  amaze  the  girls  they  stand. 

The  boys,  confounded,  scarce  know  where  to  turn  ; 

Impetuous,  they  at  once  would  rush  to  land ; 

But,  self-possession  Henry  bid  them  learn, 

And  not,  by  eagerness,  increase  the  strife. 

And,  as  he  calmly  stood,  pronounc'd  this  rule  — 

"  In  all  the  troublous  passages  of  life, 

Pray  for  a  spirit  patient,  firm,  and  cool." 

And  now,  beneath  a  skillful  driver's  care, 
We  leave  our  friends  to  wind  their  tortuous  way, 
And  seek  a  night's  refreshment,  to  repair 
Their  strength  and  spirits,  for  another  day. 


A     TRIP     TO     SARATOGA 


PART  FOUR. 


FROM  sleep  profound  our  young  folk  op'd  their  eyes, 
When  first  the  warning  bell  sent  forth  its  peal ; 
And  for  a  moment  gazed,  with  that  surprise 
Which,  waking  far  from  home,  we're  wont  to  feel. 
Anon,  they  heard  their  father  bid  them  rise, 
And,  quick,  make  ready  for  their  morning  meal. 
That  o'er,  they  sprang  their  journey  to  pursue  ; 
First  casting  round  their  rooms  a  parting  look : 


A   TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 

For  this  last  glance,  if  travellers  tell  what's  true, 
Saves  many  a  straggling  kerchief,  cap,  or  book. 

Now  are  the  party  on  their  way  again, 

Well  stow'd,  our  Henry  'mid  his  sons  and  daughters, 

And  swiftly  gliding  in  the  railroad  train 

To  Saratoga's  fam'd  health-giving  waters. 

Of  all  the  joys  that  from  our  senses  flow, 

None  are,  perhaps,  more  exquisitely  keen 

Than  those  emotions  which  light  spirits  know 

When  entering  first  upon  a  rural  scene. 

The  azure  heav'n  that  calls  our  thoughts  on  high ; 

The  glorious  light  of  summer  shed  around ; 

The  hills  and  vales  that  in  the  prospect  lie ; 

The  cloud -form'd  shadows  flying  o'er  the  ground  ; 

The  cool  untainted  zephyr  gently  blowing ; 

The  shrubs  and  grass  refresh'd  by  ev'ning  showers ; 

The  sparkling  streams  along  the  valleys  flowing ; 

The  trees  wide  spread,  or  cluster'd  into  bowers ; 

While  rapid  motion,  as  the  carriage  flies, 

Stirs  up  new  life  and  spirit  in  the  soul, 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 


43 


Just  as  the  mantling  foam  and  bubbles  rise 

In  generous  wine  that's  dash'd  into  the  bowl ;  — 

These,  and  unnumber'd  other  pure  delights 
With  which  the  varied  charms  of  Nature  shine, 
Give  to  the  heart  an  impulse  that  excites 
A  joy  that  seems  to  have  a  touch  divine. 

But  pleasure,  soon  or  late,  is  dash'd  with  pain ; 
For  mists  will  hide  the  landscape  from  the  eye ; 
The  clearest  skies  will  gather  clouds  and  rain ; 
Cool  winds  will  heated  grow,  and  dust  will  fly. 
Some  of  those  pleasures,  and  these  troubles  too, 
While  on  their  way,  our  younger  party  felt. 
The  day  wax'd  warm  ;  they  all  impatient  grew  ; 
No  more  on  rural  scenes  their  fancies  dwelt ; 
They  long'd  from  crowded  durance  to  get  free, 
And  stretch  at  ease  their  cramp'd  up  limbs,  once  more ; 
And  though,  at  first,  nought  could  exceed  their  glee, 
At  length,  they  fairly  wish'd  their  journey  o'er. 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 

On,  on,  the  engine,  puffing,  panting,  went ; 
Impatient,  as  it  seem'd,  the  goal  to  reach ; 
And,  ever  and  anon,  afar  it  sent 
Its  warning  voice,  with  fearful  goblin  screech. 
Away,  as  from  a  monster's  jaws  outspread, 
Th'  astonish'd  beasts  o'er  hill  and  valley  bound, 
With  eyes  wild  gleaming,  from  unwonted  dread, 
And,  head  and  ears  erect,  they  gaze  around. 

At  length,  their  father  bid  his  children  cheer ; 
For,  at  the  rate  they  then  were  hurl'd  along, 
Their  durance  soon  should  end,  as  they  were  near 
To  Saratoga's  idly  busy  throng. 

Soon  as  arriv'd,  like  vultures  on  their  prey, 
The  keen  attendants  on  the  baggage  fell ; 
And  trunks  and  bags  were  quickly  caught  away, 
And  in  the  destin'd  dwelling  thrown  pell-mell. 
Then  names  were  register'd,  and  rooms  were  shown, 
And,  for  the  dinner  dress,  arrangements  made : 
And,  ere  another  rapid  hour  had  flown, 
By  joyous  hearts  the  summons  was  obey'd. 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA.  45 

Life  pass'd  without  some  purpose  kept  in  view 

Were  worse  than  death.     The  lonely  pris'ner  craves 

Some  painful  task  or  labor  to  pursue  ; 

And,  for  relief,  the  fiercest  danger  braves. 

How  then  could  sons  of  pleasure  chase  away 

From  these  gay  scenes  the  horrors  of  ennui, 

But  for  the  three  great  epochs  of  the  day, 

The  happy  hours  of  Breakfast — Dinner  —  Tea  ? 

All  then  inhale  fresh  spirits  and  new  life ; 

E'en  churls  look  pleasant ;  wealth  forgets  its  pride ; 

The  fiercest  disputants  forego  their  strife  ; 

Segars  and  Politics  are  thrown  aside. 

Yet,  when  we  have  no  higher  end  and  aim 
Than  pleasure,  for  the  moment,  as  it  flies, 
It  soon  gives  way  to  feelings  cold  and  tame, 
And,  while  we  grasp  it,  languishes  and  dies. 
One  who  pursues  the  same  unvarying  round 
Of  dinners,  concerts,  billiards,  drives  and  dances, 
Is  like  a  squirrel  cag'd,  who,  though  he  bound, 
And  whirl  about  his  wheel,  yet  ne'er  advances. 


46  A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 

In  all  his  children's  pastimes  Henry  shar'd ; 

For,  to  repress  young  spirits,  he  thought  wrong ; 

But,  little,  in  his  very  heart,  he  car'd 

For  what  engag'd  the  pleasure-hunting  throng. 

And  o'er  the  young  folk  too  the  thought  would  steal, 

That  e'en  to  waltz  at  night,  at  noon  to  roam, 

To  drink  the  waters,  taste  the  hurried  meal, 

Were  not  the  the  pure  delights  of  their  dear  home. 

The  sounds  of  strife  or  wassail,  in  the  night, 

Or  of  departing  guests,  at  dawn  of  day, 

Would  fill  the  boys  with  wrath,  the  girls  with  fright ; 

And  ofttimes  chase  their  rest  and  sleep  away. 

At  meals,  some  noisy  pack  their  peace  would  mar ; 

Who  deem'd  it  to  gentility  a  stain, 

Though  half-seas-o'er  with  brandy  at  the  bar, 

To  call  for  other  bev'rage  than  champaign. 

But  swift,  away,  away,  the  hours  they  flew ; 
Those  winged  hours  that  go  so  strangely  fast 
When  unaccustom'd  objects  meet  the  view ; 
Yet  seem  of  such  unwonted  length,  when  past. 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA.  47 

When  favoring  skies  and  sunbeams  cheer'd  the  day, 
The  mansion's  inmates  scatter'd  far  and  wide, 
The  lakes  to  view,  or  in  the  fields  to  stray, 
To  hunt,  to  fish,  to  visit,  drive,  or  ride. 

Our  party  made  the  usual  tour  of  jaunts. 

They  climb'd  the  hills,  to  view  the  vales  below. 

They  sought  for  rude  uncultivated  haunts ; 

Or  stray'd  among  the  woods  where  wild  flowers  grow. 

The  wonted  casualties  that  travellers  meet 

Would  cause  perplexity,  or  fears  excite ; 

A  drunken  driver  tottering  in  his  seat ; 

A  sudden  break-down,  or  way  lost  at  night. 

But  when  they  came  back  safe  and  well  at  last, 

And,  after  toil,  enjoy'd  refreshing  rest, 

They  felt  that  all  the  troubles  they  had  past 

Gave  to  their  pleasures  still  a  keener  zest. 

'Twere  wearisome  of  all  the  scenes  to  tell 
That  caus'd  enraptur'd  feelings  to  awake. 
But  we  may  venture,  for  a  while,  to  dwell 
Upon  the  beauties  of  that  lovely  lake 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 

Whose  pure  wave  drinks  so  deep  heav'n's  holy  light, 

It  seems  a  sacred  character  to  claim ; 

And  from  religion's  sacramental  rite, 

In  days  now  long  gone  by,  deriv'd  its  name.  * 

It  seems  call'd  forth  by  magic  to  the  eye, 

With  countless  verdant  islets  scatter'd  o'er ; 

Its  hills  contrasting  with  the'  azure  sky, 

And  rising  all  romantic  from  the  shore. 

While  speechless  pleasure  in  their  faces  beam'd, 

Kate  and  her  sisters,  from  the  winged  boat, 

Would  in  the  crystal  dip  their  hands,  that  seem'd 

Like  water-lilies  on  the  wave  to  float. 

When  pelting  rain  or  tempest  threat'ning  round 
Enforc'd  th'  unwilling  guests  at  home  to  stay, 
They  sought  whate'er  expedients  could  be  found 
To  cheat  the  time  and  haste  the  weary  day. 
Recourse  was  had  to  writing  or  to  books ; 
To  walking,  lounging,  singing,  whistling,  humming ; 
To  billiards  and  backgammon,  rings  and  hooks ; 
On  hoarse  pianos  to  incessant  thrumming. 


*  Lake  George  was,  by  the  French,  called  Le  Lac  du  Sant  Sacrement. 


.. 


9 


A   TRIP    TO    SARATOGA.  49 

On  such  a  day  as  this,  a  lively  lass 
Was  playing  songs  and  waltzes,  and  odd  ends 
Of  fav'rite  melodies,  the  time  to  pass, 
Surrounded  by  a  knot  of  sportive  friends. 
While  playful  mischief  lurk'd  in  ev'ry  eye, 
With  many  a  laugh  or  titter  half  supprest, 
They  slyly  watch'd  the  figures  passing  by, 
And  look'd  and  whisper'd  many  a  merry  jest. 

A  stranger,  of  a  quiet  modest  air, 
Walked  slowly  round,  or  at  a  distance  sat. 
For  him,  no  more  did  our  gay  party  care 
Than  for  a  purring,  chimney-corner  cat. 

Amid  the  medley,  suddenly  his  ear 
Perceiv'd,  the  notes  of  an  uncommon  strain. 
He  rose,  and  quietly  approaching  near, 
Petition'd  gently  for  the  air  again. 
The  player,  courteously  the  strain  renew'd, 
Which  she,  from  foreign  voice,  had  learn'd  by  rote. 
He,  as  she  play'd  it  o'er,  the  theme  pursued, 
And  prick'd  it  in  his  tablets,  note  for  note ; 


50 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 


Then,  at  the  instrument  he  took  his  seat, 

And  play'd  the  melody  with  graceful  turn, 

And  taste  so  pure,  and  harmony  so  sweet, 

As  made  th'  astonish'd  nymphs  with  blushes  burn. 

Charm'd  by  the  pow'r  of  music's  touching  art, 
With  looks  how  chang'd  the  stranger  now  they  view ! 
And  him  it  well  behoov'd  to  guard  his  heart, 
Lest  mischief-loving  eyes  should  pierce  it  through. 

They're    of  a   compound    strange,    these   fair  young 

creatures ; 

Though  made  up,  as  'twould  seem,  of  fun  and  mirth, 
And  apes  of  fickle  fashion's  wildest  features, 
They  can   excel,  when  tried,  in   moral    strength   and 

worth. 

They're  like  the  plaything  children  call  a  Witch  ; 
Made  of  a  weight  attach'd  to  somewhat  light. 
Howe'er  you  twist  or  twirl  it,  toss  or  twitch, 
It  has  a  saving  power  that  brings  it  right. 


A     TRIP     TO     SARATOGA 


PART    FIVE. 


'TwAS  pleasant,  in  the  ev'nings,  to  behold 

The  motley  groups  with  which  the  mansion  teem'd, 

Of  various  nations  form'd,  both  young  and  old, 

That  like  to  living  panoramas  seem'd ; 

To  view  the  waltzers  whirling,  two  and  two, 

With  foot  and  heart  both  lighter  than  a  feather ; 

While  glancing  dames  watch'd,  who  and  who, 

In  graceful  coil,  had  wound  themselves  together. 


52  A   TRIP   TO   SARATOGA. 

There  might  be  seen  the  planter  from  the  South, 

With  touch  of  fire,  but  open,  debonair ; 

The  merchant  from  the  East,  with  firm-set  mouth, 

And  dark  inquiring  eye,  and  look  of  care. 

Gay  Frenchmen  too,  in  social  pastimes  skill'd, 

With  manners  polish'd,  and  with  lively  faces ; 

Young  Englishmen,  in  Greek  and  Latin  drill 'd, 

More  favor'd  by  the  Muses  than  the  Graces. 

Italian  counts  and  Spanish  dons,  all  cold, 

Sedate  and  grave ;   but  let  them  rouse  with  ire, 

Like  snow-clad  mountains,'  they'll  be  found  to  hold 

The  elements  that  feed  volcanic  fire. 

And  well-bred  Germans  too,  of  whom  some  say 

They  are  a  heavy,  dull,  Boeotian  race  ; 

But,  if  the  truth  were  told,  as  Frenchmen  gay, 

To  solid  lore,  they  join  a  Frenchman's  grace. 

And,  now  and  then,  might  fall  upon  the  ear 

The  voice  of  some  conceited  vulgar  cit, 

Who,  while  he  would  the  well-bred  man  appear, 

Mistakes  low  pleasantry  for  genuine  wit. 

Men  of  deep  learning,  or  of  sterling  worth, 

Were  in  the  crowd  conceal'd  and  to  be  sought ; 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 

Just  as  the  finer  metals,  deep  in  earth 

Are  mostly  found,  ere  to  the  view  they're  brought. 

Perchance  some  careless  genius  might  be  told 

By  flashes  he  unconscious  threw  around, 

That  seem'd  like  grains  of  sparkling  virgin  gold 

Strewn  by  the  hand  of  Nature  o'er  the  ground. 

Some  tranquil  minds  were  made  to  shine  by  dint 

Of  fools'  attacks,  that  waken'd  gen'rous  ire ; 

As  steel  elicits  from  the  stricken  flint 

The  sudden  brilliance  of  its  secret  fire. 

Fierce  party-politicians  too  there  were, 

Who  all  their  foes  in  Satan's  colors  paint ; 

Those  very  foes  who,  when  time  serves,  they'll  swear 

To  be,  each  one,  as  pure  as  any  saint. 

Some  few,  who  would  philosophers  be  deem'd, 
At  what  is  sacred  aim'd  their  heartless  wit ; 
Whose  wanton  sallies,  to  the  pious,  seem'd 
The  pale  cold  light  which  putrid  things  emit. 
From  such,  our  Henry  never  turn'd  aside, 
When  aught  they  said  was  to  his  ear  address'd  j 

4* 


54 


A.    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 


But,  by  superior  lore,  abased  their  pride ; 
Or,  by  his  keen  reproof,  their  levity  repress'd. 
He  made  them  know  and  feel  that,  in  his  eyes, 
The  humblest  pauper  who  could  hope  and  pray, 
With  heart  sincere,  above  this  state  to  rise, 
Was  of  a  higher,  nobler  caste  than  they. 

Some  damsels,  even  when  they  did  not  quote, 
Were  heard  to  choose  their  phrases  with  such  care, 
That  all  seem'd  like  a  book  well  learn'd  by  rote. 
Henry  enjoin'd  his  children  to  beware 
Of  seeking  words  and  phrases  grand  and  fine ; 
And  said,  in  language,  ornament  misplac'd, 
Just  as  in  dress,  was  wont  to  be  a  sign 
Of  badly  tutor'd  mind  and  vulgar  taste. 

There  were  some  dainty  dames  of  minds  so  pure, 
Of  sense  so  exquisite,  and  ears  so  chaste, 
That  all  around  them,  soon  or  late,  were  sure, 
By  some  unlucky  word  to  be  disgrac'd. 
If  e'er  Kate  chanc'd  to  mention  leg  or  knee, 
All  seem'd  with  wounded  modesty  to  glow. 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA.  55 

Yet,  in  the  midst  of  wildest  mirth  and  glee, 
Kate's  mind  was  purer  than  the  mountain  snow. 
And,  while  cold  scornful  smiles  were  seen  around, 
Henry  would  whisper,  she  had  spoken  well  ; 
And  that  true  modesty  was  ever  found 
Between  the  prudish  and  the  gross  to  dwell. 

Dandies  were  lounging  seen  in  the  saloon, 
With  ev'ry  item  of  their  dress  arrang'd 
By  rule  ;  and,  ev'ry  morn,  and  night,  and  noon, 
That  dress,  to  suit  the  time  of  day,  was  chang'd. 
These  exquisites  might  fancy  to  unbend 
So  far,  as  with  some  belle  a  waltz  to  walk ; 
But,  should  they  to  an  humbler  dance  descend, 
Would  like  the  statue  in  Don  Juan  stalk. 
For  why  should  they  their  toilet  jeopardize  ? 
Uncurl  a  whisker,  rumple  a  cravat, 
Disturb  a  curl  that  on  fair  forehead  lies  ? 
What  dire  misfortue  could  be  worse  than  that  ? 

Fair  forms,  as  light  as  sylphs  of  noiseless  tread, 
Imparted  life  and  radiance  to  the  scene; 


56 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 


Like  brilliant  flowerets  o'er  the  meadow  spread, 
Or  ev'ning  fire-flies  twinkling  on  the  green. 
But,  though  complexions  might  be  found  more  fair, 
Maidens  more  fit  to  shine  at  rout  or  ball, 
And  who'd  be  call'd  of  more  distinguish' d  air, 
Our  Kate  was  still  the  loveliest  of  them  all. 

Hers  was  so  archly  innocent  a  look, 

Such  pensiveness  with  gaiety  combin'd, 

As  show'd  a  nature  that  at  once  partook 

Of  ev'ry  various  quality  of  mind. 

When  aught  of  pity  mov'd  her  gentle  heart, 

There  was  a  light,  that  seem'd   not  of  this  earth, 

Beam'd  from  her  eyes,  and  fail'd  not  to  impart 

To  all  she  said  or  did  a  tenfold  worth. 

She,  with  her  brother  Charles,  one  sultry  eve, 

To  seek  refreshing  breezes,  chanc'd  to  stray. 

A  wand'ring  pauper  pray'd  them  to  relieve 

His  want ;  nor  turn'd  they  from  his  prayer  away. 

They  both  were  mov'd,  for  he  was  old  and  maim'd. 

He  thank'd  our  Charles  ;  but  such  the  angel  grace 

With  which  Kate  gave  her  alms,  that  he  exclaim'd 

"  May  God  Almighty  bless  your  kind  sweet  face  !  " 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA 


PART  SIX. 


BUT  now  autumnal  airs  began  to  blow  ; 
At  morn  and  eve,  the  atmosphere  was  cold  ; 
The  hours  no  longer  seem'd  on  wings  to  go ; 
The  pleasures  most  approv'd  grew  stale  and  old. 
Home  !  home  !  whose  very  name  has  magic  power, 
Became,  each  moment,  dearer  to  each  heart. 
Of  all  their  life,  'twould  be  the  happiest  hour, 
When  for  that  home  they  should  again  depart. 


58 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 


At  length,  quite  wearied  with  the  course  they'd  run, 
It  was  arrang'd,  if  naught  the  plan  should  mar, 
For  all  to  rise  before  the  morrow's  sun, 
And  make  them  ready  for  the  homeward  car. 

Bright  roseate  hues  adorn'd  the  eastern  skies 
As  Sol  lit  up  the  morn  without  a  cloud. 
Sleep  quickly  vanish'd  from  our  party's  eyes ; 
The  gathering  bustle  rose  more  strong  and  loud  ; 
For  now  toward  home  they  soon  should  be  away. 
Each  hand  and  tongue  was  busy  as  a  bee ; 
And,  ere  the  ev'ning  of  another  day, 
They  hop'd  their  wish'd-for  home  again  to  see. 

'Twas  one  of  these  autumal  days  that  shine, 
Full  oft,  so  glorious,  on  our  favor'd  land  ; 
When  th'  heavens  and  all  the  elements  combine 
To  render  Nature  beautiful  and  bland. 
There  breath'd  around  a  heav'nly  influence  — 
Creation  look'd  so  smiling  and  so  blest, 
That  sorrow's  keenest  pangs  grew  less  intense, 
And  heaviest  care  with  lighter  burden  prest. 


A    TRIP    TO    SARATOGA.  59 

All  objects  shone  so  lucid  and  so  clear, 
So  sharp  each  outline  on  the  deep-blue  sky, 
That  what  was  distant  seem'd  to  draw  more  near, 
And  ev'ry  tint  came  radiant  to  the  eye. 
The  foliage  had  exchang'd  its  summer  green 
For  all  the  varied  hues  by  Autumn  shed. 
No  rustling  breeze  disturb'd  the  tranquil  scene 
That  seem'd  a  picture  to  the  view  outspread. 

If  e'er  we  mortals  feel  unmingled  bliss, 
While  through  this  world  of  care  we  roam, 
'Tis  in  the  hour,  when,  on  a  day  like  this, 
We  speed  us,  after  absence  long,  for  home. 

Away  they  flew,  those  cars  that  seem  design'd 
With  birds  of  swiftest  strongest  wing  to  race  ; 
And,  as  no  more  by  former  laws  confin'd, 
Seem,  while  they  go,  to  mock  at  time  and  space. 
With  such  delight  our  party's  minds  were  fraught, 
To  think  that  homeward  they  were  hurl'd  again ; 
Such  pleasure  'twas  to  dwell  upon  the  thought, 
They  almost  wish'd  the  motion  to  restrain. 


A   TRIP   TO    SARATOGA. 

Just  as  we  see  a  child  delay  to  taste 
Some  ripe  and  tempting  fruit  'tis  wont  to  prize  ; 
Nor  will  it  to  the  dainty  pleasure  haste ; 
But  still  puts  off  the  feast,  and  fondly  eyes. 

To  fam'd  Albania's  dullness  and  its  dust 
We  leave  our  party  for  another  night, 
The  hours  to  sleep  away,  in  hope  and  trust, 
At  home,  next  day,  to  find  all  well  and  right. 

No  need  there  was,  at  morn,  for  bell  to  chime, 
Nor  for  the  voice  of  Henry's  early  call. 
They  were  afoot  long  ere  the  wonted  time ; 
Their  things  were  pack'd,  and  they  were  ready  all, 
Ere  long,  our  Henry,  with  his  girls  and  boys 
Were  on  the  steamer's  deck ;  and  one  day  more 
Of  pleasure,  mix'd  with  bustle,  heat  and  noise, 
Brought  back  the  travellers  safely  to  their  door, 

And  then  it  was  a  goodly  sight,  to  see 

The  servants,  old  and  young,  all  rushing  out 


A   TRIP    TO    SARATOGA. 

Their  faces  beaming  with  such  heart-felt  glee  ! 

And  ev'ry  tongue  in  motion  !  —  Such  a  rout ! 

The  watch-dog  jumping  with  outrageous  joy, 

His  paws  outstretch'd  upon  his  master's  neck ; 

Who  had  his  utmost  vigor  to  employ, 

The  creature's  loving  violence  to  check. 

The  favorite  lap-dog  leapt  around  the  girls, 

And  would  be  seen  and  heard  amid  the  throng : 

He  wagg'd  his  tail,  and  shook  his  silken  curls, 

And  downright  scolded  that  they  staid  so  long. 

And  Csesar  bustled  round,  with  mouth  agrin  ; 

A  faithful  heart  his  homely  form  beneath, 

Distinguish'd  from  the  rest  by  ebon  skin 

In  shining  contrast  with  his  snow-white  teeth. 

Amid  their  joy,  the  young-folk  felt  surprise 

That  when  they  tried  to  speak,  their  lips  were  dumb. 

Soft  silent  tears  came  gushing  to  their  eyes  ; 

With  pleasing  pain  their  hearts  were  overcome. 

When  all  were  hous'd,  and  things  arrang'd,  at  last, 
And  when  they  felt  they  were  at  home  once  more  : 


61 


A   TRIP   TO   SARATOGA. 

When  they  had  risen  from  their  light  repast ; 
And  when  their  ev'ning  orisons  were  o'er ; 
Then,  ere  retiring  to  their  welcome  rest, 
Kate  to  her  father's  cheek  approach'd  her  lip, 
And  ask'd  him,  as  he  held  her  to  his  breast, 
"  Now,  father,  was  it  such  a  foolish  trip  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  our  Henry,  "  not,  if  you're  return'd 

With  health  robust,  and  love  of  home  renew'd ; 

If  to  appreciate  true  worth  you've  learn'd, 

And  with  due  scorn  have  worthless  folly  view'd ; 

If  Nature's  works  have  tended  to  inspire, 

For  what  is  beautiful  and  pure,  a  keener  love ; 

If,  at  their  view,  you  felt  a  holy  fire 

Enwrap  your  heart,  and  call  your  thoughts  above. 

But,  if  this  be  the  first  step  to  the  moon, 

For  which  you  seem'd  so  eager,  in  the  Spring ; 

If,  henceforth,  we're  to  sail  in  a  balloon, 

Or  other  craft  of  new-invented  wing ; 

If  this,  your  first  excursion  do  but  tend 

To  render  you  unquiet,  prone  to  roam, 


A    TRIP   TO    SARATOGA. 

To  make  your  peace  on  what's  abroad  depend, 

'Twere  better  far  you  ne'er  had  left  your  home. 

And  now,  my  darling  rogue,  to  bed  away, 

Still  to  this  sublunary  state  resign'd ; 

And,  whereso'er  your  lot,  forever  pray 

That  Heav'n  may  grant  you  a  contented  mind." 


63 


TO  MY  CHILDREN, 


AFTER    HAVING    MY    PORTRAIT  TAKEN    FOR    THEM. 


THIS  semblance  of  your  parent's  time-worn  face 
Is  but  a  sad  bequest,  my  children  dear ! 

Its  youth  and  freshness  gone,  and  in  their  place 
The  lines  of  care,  the  track  of  many  a  tear ! 

Amid  life's  wreck,  we  struggle  to  secure 

Some  floating  fragment  from  oblivion's  wave  : 

We  pant  for  somewhat  that  may  still  endure, 
And  snatch  at  least  a  shadow  from  the  grave.* 

5* 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Poor,  weak,  and  transient  mortals !  why  so  vain 
Of  manly  vigor  or  of  beauty's  bloom? 

An  empty  shade  for  ages  may  remain 

When  we  have  moulder'd  in  the  silent  tomb. 

But  no !  it  is  not  we  who  moulder  there ; 

We,  of  essential  light  that  ever  burns, 
We  take  our  way  through  untried  fields  of  air, 

When  to  the  earth  this  earth-born  frame  returns. 

And  'tis  the  glory  of  the  master's  art 

Some  radiance  of  this  inward  light  to  find ; 

Some  touch  that  to  his  canvass  may  impart 
A  breath,  a  sparkle  of  the  immortal  mind. 

Alas !  the  pencil's  noblest  power  can  show 
But  some  faint  shadow  of  a  transient  thought, 

Some  waken'd  feeling's  momentary  glow, 
Some  swift  impression  in  its  passage  caught. 

Oh !  that  the  artist's  pencil  could  portray 
A  father's  inward  bosom  to  your  eyes ; 


TO   MY   CHILDREN. 

What  hopes,  and  fears,  and  doubts  perplex  his  way, 
What  aspirations  for  your  welfare  rise. 

Then  might  this  unsubstantial  image  prove, 
When  I  am  gone,  a  guardian  of  your  youth, 

A  friend  for  ever  urging  you  to  move 
In  paths  of  honor,  holiness,  and  truth. 

Let  fond  imagination's  power  supply 

The  void  that  baffles  all  the  painter's  art ; 

And  when  those  mimic  features  meet  your  eye, 
Then  fancy  that  they  speak  a  parent's  heart. 

Think  that  you  still  can  trace  within  those  eyes 
The  kindling  of  affection's  fervid  beam, 

The  searching  glance  that  every  fault  espies, 
The  fond  anticipation's  pleasing  dream. 

Fancy  those  lips  still  utter  sounds  of  praise, 

Or  kind  reproof  that  checks  each  wayward  will, 

The  warning  voice,  or  precepts  that  may  raise 
Your  thoughts  above  this  treach'rous  world  of  ill. 


67 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

And  thus  shall  Art  attain  her  loftiest  power ; 

To  noblest  purpose  shall  her  efforts  tend : 
Not  the  companion  of  an  idle  hour, 

But  Virtue's  handmaid  and  Religion's  friend. 


LINES 


ADDRESSED,    MANY    YEARS    AGO,    TO    THE    FASHIONABLE    PART    OF   MY 

YOUNG  COUNTRYWOMEN  ;    AND  HAPPY  AM  I  TO  SAY,  NOW 

NO   LONGER  APPLICABLE  TO   THEM. 


YE  blooming  nymphs,  our  country's  joy  and  pride, 
Who  in  the  stream  of  fashion  thoughtless  glide ; 
No  modish  lay,  no  melting  strain  of  love 
Is  here  pour'd  forth,  your  tender  hearts  to  move. 
Yet  think  not  envious  age  inspires  the  song, 
Rejecting  all  our  earth-born  joys  as  wrong. 
Think  me  no  matron  stern  who  would  repress 
Each  modern  grace,  each  harmless  change  of  dress ; 


70 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


But  one  whose  heart  exults  to  join  the  band 
Where  joy  and  innocence  go  hand  in  hand ; 
One  who,  while  modesty  maintains  her  place, 
That  sacred  charm  which  heightens  every  grace, 
Complacent,  sees  your  robes  excel  the  snow, 
Or  borrow  colors  from  the  aerial  bow. 

But  in  those  half- rob'd  bosoms  are  there  hid 
No  thoughts  which  shame  and  purity  forbid  ? 
Why  do  those  fine-wrought  veils  around  you  play, 
Like  mists  which  scarce  bedim  the  orb  of  day  ? 
What  mean  those  careless  limbs,  that  conscious  air, 
At  which  the  modest  blush,  the  vulgar  stare  ? 
Can  spotless  minds  endure  the  guilty  leer, 
The  sober  matron's  frown,  the  witling's  sneer  ? 
Are  these  the  charms  which,  in  this  age  refin'd, 
Ensure  applause,  and  captivate  the  mind  ? 
Are  these  your  boasted  powers  ;  are  these  the  arts 
Which  kindle  love,  and  chain  inconstant  hearts  ? 

Alas !  some  angry  power,  some  demon's  skill 
Hath  wrought  this  strange  perversity  of  will ; 


TO   MY   YOUNG   COUNTRYWOMEN.  71 

For  sure  some  foe  to  innocence  beguiles, 

When  harmless  doves  attempt  the  serpent's  wiles. 

True,  Fashion's  laws  her  ready  votaries  screen, 

And  ogling  beaux  exclaim,  Oh  Goddess !  Queen  ! 

But,  vile  the  praise  and  adoration  sought 

By  arts  degrading  to  each  nobler  thought ! 

A  base-born  love  those  notes  of  praise  inspires ; 

That  incense  rises  from  unhallowed  fires. 

If  deaf  while  shame  and  purity  complain, 

If  reason's  gentle  voice  be  rais'd  in  vain, 

Learn  from  the  scented  nosegay  in  your  hand 

The  charms  that  can  alone  true  love  command. 

The  flaunting  tulip  you  reject  with  scorn, 

Though  ting'd  with  all  the  hues  that  deck  the  morn ; 

And,  careful,  search  for  humbler  flowers  which  bloom 

Beneath  the  grass,  yet  scatter  sweet  perfume. 

The  buds  which  only  half  their  sweets  disclose 

You  fondly  seize,  but  leave  the  full-blown  rose. 

Humble  the  praise,  and  trifling  the  regard 
Which  ever  wait  upon  the  moral  bard  ! 


72  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


But  there  remains  a  hateful  truth  unsung 

Which  burns  the  cheek,  and  faulters  on  the  tongue ; 

And  which,  if  modesty  still  hover  round, 

Each  virgin  breast  with  sorrow  must  confound. 

"  Those  graceful  modes,"  thus  say  your  flattering  beaux, 

"  From  ancient  times  and  tastes  refin'd  arose." 

Disgrace  not  thus  the  names  of  Greece  and  Rome, 

Their  birth-place  must  be  sought  for  nearer  home. 

Shame  !    shame  !   heart-rending   thought !   deep-sinking 

stain ! 

That  Britain's  and  Columbia's  Fair  should  deign, 
Nay  strive,  their  native  beauties  to  enhance 
By  arts  first  taught  by  prostitutes  of  France  !  * 

O  Modesty  and  Innocence  !  sweet  pair 

V 

Of  dove-like  sisters !  still  attend  our  Fair. 
Teach  them,  without  your  heav'nly  influence, 
How  vain  the  charms  of  beauty  or  of  sense. 


*  Dr.  Barrow  in  his  Treatise  on  Education,  vol.  2,  p.  305,  says :  "  Our  young 
women  are  probably  little  aware  that  the  fashionable  nakedness  of  the  pre 
sent  day  was  first  adopted  in  this  country,  in  imitation  of  the  revolutionary 
prostitutes  of  France." 


TO   MY    YOUNG   COUNTRYWOMEN.  73 

Invest  them  with  your  radiance  mild,  yet  bright ; 
And  give  their  sparkling  eyes  a  softer  light. 
Quick-mantling  dimples  on  their  cheeks  bestow ; 
And  teach  them  with  a  purer  red  to  glow ; 
Let  winning  smiles  too  round  those  dimples  gleam, 
Like  moon-beams  on  the  ruffled  stream. 
And  if  resentment  on  the  Muse  attend 
From  those  she  loves,  and  truly  would  befriend, 
Tell  them,  that  cruel  and  unjust  their  ire  ; 
That  she  would  warm  their  hearts  with  holy  fire ; 
And  to  the  charms  that  soon  must  pass  away 
Would  add  those  mental  beauties  which   shall   ne'er 
decay. 


THE  MISCHIEVOUS  MUSE. 

CANZONET. 

TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    ITALIAN    OF    SIONOR  DA   PONTE — WRITTEN    BY 

HIM    TO    BE    RECITED    AT    ONE  OF   HIS  CONVERSAZIONI,  WHICH 

WERE   ATTENDED    BY    HIS    PUPILS. 


BRIGHT  God  of  harmony,  whose  voice 

Inspires  the  tuneful  Nine, 
Oh,  grant  me  now  thy  golden  lyre  ; 

And  teach  a  strain  like  thine ! 

And  come,  sweet  Heliconian  Maids, 
With  mine  your  notes  to  blend  : 

The  gay  Terpsichore*  alone 
I  ask  not  to  descend. 


*  The  Muse  who  presides  over  dancing. 


THE   MISCHIEVOUS   MUSE.  75 

To  her  I've  sworn  eternal  hate  ; 

My  soul  indignant  views 
The  wrongs  by  her  to  Pallas  done, 

And  every  sister  Muse. 

Deep  shrouded  in  her  gloomy  clouds, 

Black  Night  of  her  complains, 
That  many  a  dream  within  its  grot 

An  idler  now  remains. 

Enamour'd  of  the  airy  skill 

This  frolic  Muse  displays 
When  call'd  by  fashion's  friendly  voice 

To  guide  the  sportive  maze, 

A  thousand  nymphs  of  loveliest  bloom, 

Fair  Hebe's  joy  and  pride, 
Reject  me  from  their  blithsome  hearts, 

And  all  my  pangs  deride. 

What  aspirations  from  this  breast 
Their  charms  have  caus'd  to  rise ! 


76  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


But,  ah!  the  winds  dispers'd  each  pray'r 
Before  it  reach'd  the  skies. 

The  lyre  Apollo  kindly  gave 

I  find  avail  me  naught ; 
Each  tawny  scraper's  notes  surpass 

The  strains  by  Phoebus  taught. 

How  oft  my  swelling  voice  in  vain 
Has  pour'd  th'  unheeded  song, 

While  gay  gavotte  or  dizzy  waltz 
CalPd  off  the  ready  throng. 

In  vain  I've  bid  each  thoughtless  nymph 

Consult  her  mirror  true  ; 
And,  ere  too  late,  the  dire  effects 

Of  ceaseless  balls  to  view. 

In  vain  I've  mark'd  the  languid  beam, 
That  lights  her  sleepless  eye, 

And  loudly  mourn'd  the  faded  cheek, 
Where  new  blown  roses  die. 


THE   MISCHIEVOUS   MUSE. 

In  vain  I've  tried  these  various  arts, 
And  bid  the  numbers  flow  ; 

I've  learnt,  'tis  folly  to  resist 
A  fiddler's  magic  bow. 

Would  that  Apollo  made  thee  leave 

The  pure  Castalian  choir  ; 
Or  bound  thee  with  a  golden  string 

From  off  thy  useless  lyre  ! 

Learn,  bold  intruder,  to  the  feet 

Thy  empire  is  confm'd  ; 
Leave,  then,  some  more  exalted  power 

To  sway  the  human  mind. 

But  whither  is  my  ardent  soul 

In  fury  wrapt  away  ? 
Pardon,  ye  fair,  who  court  this  Muse, 

And  love  her  frolick  sway. 

Already  from  the  nymphs  I  hear 
The  low-voic'd  murmurs  rise ; 


77 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

I  see  the  frowns  that  shade  their  brows  — 
The  lightning  of  their  eyes, 

And  looks,  that  thousand  dire  alarms 

Within  my  breast  create ; 
Lest  I,  like  Orpheus,  should  be  torn, 

Or  meet  Absyrtus'  fate. 

Ah,  smooth  those  brows  so  fiercely  knit ! 

Fair  vot'ries  of  the  dance  ; 
And  let  a  beaming  smile  of  peace 

Adorn  each  lovely  glance. 

Now  let  those  fallen  cheeks,  so  pale, 

Resume  their  native  red  ; 
No  more  let  peace  and  joy  be  chas'd 

By  words  in  frolick  said. 

And  hark,  your  willing  ears  may  catch 
The  distant  prelude's  sound ; 

I  see  the  Goddess  you  adore  descend, 
To  lead  the  festive  round. 


THE   MISCHIEVOUS   MUSE.  79 

Now,  from  your  seats,  all  spring  alert, 

'Twere  folly  to  delay, 
In  well-assorted  pairs  unite, 

And  nimbly  trip  away. 


LINES 


WRITTEN    AFTER    A    SNOW-STORM. 


COME  children  dear,  and  look  around ; 

Behold  how  soft  and  light 
The  silent  snow  has  clad  the  ground 

In  robes  of  purest  white. 

The  trees  seem  deck'd  by  fairy  hand, 
Nor  need  their  native  green ; 

And  every  breeze  appears  to  stand, 
All  hush'd,  to  view  the  scene. 


WRITTEN   AFTER   A    SNOW-STORM. 

You  wonder  how  the  snows  were  made 

That  dance  upon  the  air, 
As  if  from  purer  worlds  they  stray'd, 

So  lightly  and  so  fair. 

Perhaps  they  are  the  summer  flowers 

In  northern  stars  that  bloom, 
Wafted  away  from  icy  bowers 

To  cheer  our  winter's  gloom. 

Perhaps  they're  feathers  of  a  race 

Of  birds  that  live  away, 
In  some  cold  dreary  wintry  place, 

Far  from  the  sun's  warm  ray. 

And  clouds,  perhaps,  are  downy  beds 

On  which  the  winds  repose  ; 
Who,  when  they  rouse  their  slumb'ring  heads, 

Shake  down  the  feath'ry  snows. 

But  see,  my  darlings,  while  we  stay 
And  gaze  with  fond  delight, 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

The  fairy  scene  soon  fades  away, 
And  mocks  our  raptur'd  sight. 

And  let  this  fleeting  vision  teach 
A  truth  you  soon  must  know — 

That  all  the  joys  we  here  can  reach 
Are  transient  as  the  snow. 


LINES 


ADDRESSED    TO   THE    YOUNG    LADIES    WHO   ATTENDED    MR.    CHILTON  S 
LECTURES     IN    NATURAL    PHILOSOPHY,    ANNO    1804-5. 


THE  beasts  who  roam  o'er  Libya's  desert  plain 
Have  gentler  hearts  than  men  who  dare  maintain 
That  woman,  lovely  woman,  hath  no  soul. 
They  too  seem  drench'd  in  Circe's  pois'nous  bowl 
Who  grant,  the  Fair  may  have  a  soul  to  save, 
But  deem  each  female  born  an  abject  slave. 
Give  me  a  maiden  of  unfetter'd  mind, 
By  thought  and  knowledge  strengthen 'd  and  refin'd ! 


84  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

A  gift  like  this  more  precious  would  I  hold 
Than  India's  gems,  or  Afric's  purest  gold. 

Ye  maids,  whose  vows  to  science  are  address' d, 

If  thus  your  minds  be  fashion'd,  thus  impress'd, 

With  joy  your  course  pursue ;  nor  heed,  the  while, 

Envy's  malignant  grin,  nor  Folly's  smile. 

Trace  Nature's  laws ;  explore  the  starry  maze  ; 

Learn  why  the  lightnings  flash,  the  meteors  blaze. 

From  earth  to  heav'n  your  view,  inquiring,  dart ; 

And  see  how  order  reigns  in  every  part. 

'Tis  sweet,  'tis  wholesome  to  frequent  this  school 

Where  all  is  beauty  and  unerring  rule. 

But  strain'd  research  becomes  not  well  the  fair ; 

Deep  thought  imparts  a  melancholy  air ; 

The  sparkling  eye  grows  dim,  the  roses  fade, 

When  long  obscur'd  beneath  a  studious  shade. 

Suffice  it  for  a  tender  nymph  to  stray 

Where  strength  and  industry  have  clear'd  the  way ; 

To  cull  the  fruits  and  flowers  which  bless  the  toil 

Endur'd  by  Newton,  Verulam  and  Boyle. 


85 


Yet  all  possess  not  senses  to  enjoy 

These  flowers  so  fair,  these  fruits  which  never  cloy. 

There  runs  through  all  things  which  our  powers  can 

note 

A  golden  thread  which  links  the  most  remote. 
There  is  a  kindred  feature  to  be  trac'd 
In  things  most  opposite,  most  widely  plac'd. 
In  matter,  thus,  resemblance  may  be  found 
To  soaring  mind,  whose  movements  own  no  bound. 
For,  as  a  fluid  vainly  strives  to  save 
A  heavier  mass  from  sinking  in  its  wave, 
So,  in  the  mind  made  up  of  trifles  light, 
All  weighty  truths,  o'erwhelm'd  sink  out  of  sight  ! 
A  while,  perchance,  it  may  endure  to  feel 
A  sober  thought's  dread  weight,  as  polish'd  steel, 
Dropp'd  gently  on  the  water's  face,  seems  loth 
To  sink ;  but  'tis  repulsion  holds  them  both. 

Fair  science,  how  thy  modest  cheeks  would  glow, 
If  dragg'd  to  view  in  fashion's  puppet-show  ! 
Midst  fops  and  feathers,  sighs  and  painted  cheeks, 
Soft  maiden  blushes,  and  strange  maiden  freaks ; 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Midst  sickening  pleasures,  wearisome  delights, 
Days  doom'd  to  listlessness,  and  sleepless  nights. 
Ill  would'st  thou  fare  amidst  this  gaudy  train, 
Where  all  is  treach'rous,  transitory,  vain ! 
No,  no,  the  fair  who  pant  for  joys  like  these 
Not  wisdom's  richest  stores  of  wealth  could  please. 
Let  Heaven  and  Earth,  for  them,  be  rul'd  by  chance 
No  laws  they  heed  but  those  which  rule  the  dance. 
Their  eyes,  fast  fix'd  on  earth,  ne'er  love  to  roam 
O'er  all  the  splendor  of  the  starry  dome, 
For  them  no  stars  e'er  shone,  since  time  began, 
With  half  the  glories  of  a  spangled  fan. 

To  you,  ye  Nymphs,  inspirers  of  my  song, 
No  features  here  portrayed,  I  trust,  belong. 
But  should  I  see  a  girl  at  knowledge  aim 
Because  philosophy's  a  handsome  name ; 
Or  who  would  learn  because  the  fashion's  so, 
And  beckon  science  as  she  would  a  beau, 
This  truth  the  trifler  from  my  lips  should  know, 
"  When  Nature  shall  forget  her  'stablish'd  laws, 
And  chance  take  place  of  an  omniscient  cause ; 


MR.  CHILTON'S  LECTURES.  87 

When  every  creature  some  strange  powers  shall  know, 
That  swims  in  air,  or  treads  the  earth  below ; 
When  bees,  forgetful  of  their  wonted  skill, 
Shall  idly  flaunt,  while  butterflies  distill 
The  liquid  sweets,  and  build  the  curious  cell, 
Then  may  true  wisdom  grace  a  fluttering  Belle. 


LINES 


ON   SEEING   MY   NAME   WRITTEN   BY   A   YOUNG   LADY  IN   THE    SAND   OF 
THE    SEA-SHORE. 


THIS  name  here  drawn  by  Flora's  hand 

Portrays,  alas !  her  mind  : 
The  beating  surf  and  yielding  sand 

Soon  leave  no  trace  behind. 

But  Flora's  name  shall  still  abide 

In  many  a  bosom  trac'd, 
Not  e'en  by  time's  destroying  tide 

Nor  fortune's  storms  effac'd. 


\ 


•n 


COWrFER  Er 


LINES 


ON    COWPER   THE    POET,    WRITTEN   AFTER    READING    THE    LIFE    OF    HIM 
BY   HA.YLEY. 


SWEET  melancholy  Bard !  whose  piercing  thought 

Found  humblest  themes  with  pure  instruction  fraught ; 

How  hard  for  mortal  sight  to  trace  the  ways 

Of  Heav'n  throughout  thy  life's  mysterious  maze  ! 

Why  was  it  order'd  that  thy  gentle  mind, 

Which  fancy  fiVd  and  piety  refin'd, 

Should  in  this  guilty  world  be  forc'd  to  dwell, 

Like  some  base  culprit  in  his  gloomy  cell, 

7* 


90  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Rous'd  from  its  due  repose  by  feverish  dreams, 
By  goblin  forms,  by  din  of  fancied  screams  ? 
Why  was  that  fertile  genius  waste  and  chill'd  ? 
By  wintry  blasts  its  opening  blossoms  kill'd  ? 
A  soil  where  Yemen's  spicy  buds  might  blow, 
And  Persia's  rose  a  purer  fragrance  know ! 
Why  bloom'd  so  late  those  sweet  poetic  flowers, 
Bless'd  by  no  summer  suns,  no  vernal  showers, 
Which  in  the  autumn  of  thy  days  were  rear'd 
By  friendship's  dew,  by  fickle  zephyrs  cheer'd  ? 

I  hear  a  distant  Seraph  bid  me  "  Hold, 
Nor  tempt  high  Heav'n  by  such  inquiries  bold. 
Weak-sighted  mortal !  canst  thou  not  discern 
What  from  unaided  reason  thou  might'st  learn  ? 
Had  fortune's  sunbeams  cheer'd  his  early  days, 
Amidst  the  soft  favonian  breath  of  praise, 
Those  fruitful  virtues  which  sprang  up  so  fair, 
Those  blossoms  breathing  odors  on  the  air, 
By  weeds  of  pride  and  vanity  o'ergrown, 
Unheeded  might  have  bloom'd,  and  died  unknown. 


LINES   ON   COWPER.  91 

Presumptuous  mortal  'twould  become  thee  well 
On  this  thy  fellow  mortal's  life  to  dwell ; 
For  in  his  breast,  when  rack'd  by  fiercest  woes, 
To  question  Heav'n,  no  daring  thought  e'er  rose. 
His  actions  vice  and  folly  view  with  shame ; 
His  precepts  foul-mouth'd  envy  dares  not  blame ; 
His  well-lov'd  image  still  calls  many  a  tear  ; 
His  cherish'd  name  all  ages  shall  revere." 


TO  PETROSA. 


SUGGESTED     BY     GOLDSMITH'S     STANZAS    WHICH    BEGIN, — "  SAY    CRUEL 
IRIS,   PRETTY    RAKE." 


THY  charms,  Petrosa,  which  inspire 
Unnumber'd  swains  to  chant  thy  praise, 
Bid  me  too  join  the  tuneful  choir, 
My  faint  and  timorous  voice  to  raise. 

And  though  more  lofty  songs  invite, 
Regard  for  once,  an  humble  swain  : 
The  warbling  thrush  can  oft  delight 
More  than  the  skylark's  louder  strain. 


TO   PETROSA.  93 

Thy  heavenly  form,  thy  virtues  too, 
In  notes  of  praise  ascend  the  skies. 
To  opening  charms,  that  strike  the  view, 
Unceasing  aspirations  rise. 

But  midst  these  charms,  by  all  confess'd, 
One  fault  thy  hopeless  swains  declare  ; 
A  heart  there  dwells  within  that  breast, 
Which  knows  no  love,  which  heeds  no  prayer. 

Despondent  sighs,  and  notes  of  pain 
Delight,  they  say,  Petrosa's  ear : 
To  sue  for  pity,  were  as  vain 
As  from  the  rocks  to  ask  a  tear. 

Oh  senseless  throng  !  that  callous  breast 
Proclaims  her  nature's  favor'd  child  : 
While  others  pine,  with  love  oppress'd, 
Her  thoughts  are  free,  her  slumbers  mild. 

And  all  that  softness  which  gives  grace 
And  honor  to  the  female  heart, 


94  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Though  distant  from  its  wonted  place, 
She  harbors  in  a  nobler  part ; 

For,  though  that  heart  to  every  sound 
Which  would  compassion  move  be  dull, 
The  softness  which  should  there  be  found 
Kind  Nature  granted  to  her — skull. 


TRANSLATION  OF  METASTASIO'S  ODE  TO  NICE 


THE     NAME     ELLEN    BEING     SUBSTITUTED     FOR     NICE. 


THANKS  !  Ellen,  to  thy  treach'rous  wiles  ! 
Once  more,  the  air  I  freely  draw : 
Thanks  to  the  Gods  !  who,  pitying,  saw 
A  wretched  captive's  pain. 
And  'tis  not  fancy  that  beguiles 
With  fleeting  dreams  my  tranquil  heart ; 
Unfetter'd,  now,  I  lightly  start, 
Indignant,  from  thy  chain. 


96 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

No  longer  glows  my  wonted  flame. 
I've  found,  so  sure,  the  rest  I  sought, 
That  love  can  find  no  angry  thought 
Where  hidden  he  may  dwell. 
No  more,  at  mention  of  thy  name, 
I  feel  the  burning  blushes  rise. 
Now,  when  I  meet  thy  brilliant  eyes, 
No  throbs  my  bosom  swell. 

In  nightly  dreams  that  round  me  play 
No  more  thy  features  I  discern. 
When  morn  arrives,  no  more  return 
My  earliest  thoughts  to  thee. 
From  thee  afar  full  oft  I  stray ; 
Nor  of  thy  absence  e'er  complain  • 
To  thee  return'd,  I  still  remain 
From  all  emotion  free. 

No  more,  while  musing  on  thy  charms, 
In  tender  ecstacy  I  melt. 
Not  all  the  wrongs  this  heart  has  felt 
One  vengeful  thought  can  raise. 


ODE    TO    NICE. 

No  more  I  feel  those  fond  alarms 
That  thrill'd  me  when  my  love  drew  near 
My  rival's  self,  unmov'd,  I  hear 
Exulting  in  thy  praise. 

Let  cold  disdain  o'ershade  thy  Brow, 
Or  sweet  complacency  adorn  ; 
Indifferent,  I  behold  thy  scorn ; 
Unmov'd,  I  see  thee  smile. 
Lost  is  the  wonted  empire  now 
That  once  those  lips,  those  eyes  possess'd, 
Which  knew  so  well  to  rule  this  breast, 
And  every  sense  beguile. 

If  gathering  clouds  my  mind  oppress, 
Or  laughing  joys  my  soul  uplift ; 
No  longer  are  the  joys  thy  gift  ; 
Nor  dost  thou  cause  the  gloom. 
The  varied  charms  that  Nature  dress 
Without  thee,  now,  I  fondly  view ; 
Nor  can  thy  presence,  now,  renew 
The  dreary  landscape's  bloom. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Hence  thou  may'st  know  that  I'm  sincere  ; 

Thou  still  art  brilliant  to  my  sight, 

But  not  with  pure  celestial  light, 

Unparagon'd  on  earth. 

To  stain  thy  charms,  some  spots  appear 

That  once,  ah !  let  not  truth  offend, 

Like  mellowing  shades,  but  seem'd  to  lend 

Thy  brilliancy  more  worth. 

I  blush  this  weakness  to  relate ; 
But,  when  I  snapp'd  the  pois'nous  dart ; 
Ah  me !  such  anguish  rent  my  heart, 
Methought  I'd  perish  too. 
But  who  dare  call  the  pangs  too  great, 
That  free  from  servitude  the  breast ; 
That  lift  a  gen'rous  soul  oppres'd, 
And  all  its  strength  renew  ? 

Yon  bird  that  in  the  treach'rous  lime 
His  careless  pinion  lately  dipt, 
Of  many  a  downy  plume  though  stript, 
Doth  freedom  still  enjoy  : 


ODE    TO    NICE. 

But  soon  his  newgrown  wing,  sublime, 
Its  boldest  flight  again  shall  dare ; 
Well  taught  to  shun  the  specious  snare 
That  lures  but  to  destroy. 

These  words  I  know  thou'lt  not  believe, 
That  now  disclaim  thy  wonted  sway  ; 
These  frequent  boasts,  I  hear  thee  say, 
My  thraldom  but  declare. 
But,  Ellen,  didst  thou  ne'er  perceive 
That  mortals  taste  no  joy  more  sweet, 
Than  former  perils  to  repeat 
And  muse  on  former  care  ? 

Thus,  all  the  fury  of  the  fight 

The  war-worn  vet'ran  loves  to  tell ; 

And,  while  proud  thoughts  his  bosom  swell, 

Gives  all  his  scars  to  view. 

The  slave  restor'd  to  freedom's  light 

Tells  o'er  and  o'er  a  captive's  woe  ; 

And,  inly  joy'd,  he  loves  to  show 

The  galling  chain  he  drew. 


100 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

In  truth,  I  care  not  if  I  seem 
Sincere  or  guileful  to  thine  eye ; 
Mere  selfishness  to  gratify 
Is  now  my  sole  desire. 
If,  when  I  chance  to  be  thy  theme, 
Thy  bosom  still  remain  at  ease, 
If  what  I  speak  offend  or  please, 
I  care  not  to  inquire. 

I  from  a  false  inconstant  go, 

And  take  a  heart  once  truly  thine ; 

Which  should  rejoice,  or  which  repine, 

'Tis  not  my  part  to  say. 

But,  Ellen  ne'er  again  shall  know 

A  love  like  mine  so  fond,  so  true ; 

While  false  dissemblers  rise  to  view, 

The  growth  of  every  day. 


A  SONG. 


WRITTEN   TO   ITALIAN    MUSIC. 


SWEET  Maid,  could  wealth  or  power 
Thy  heart  to  love  incline, 
I  would  not  bless  the  hour, 
The  hour  that  calls  thee  mine. 
Ah  !  no,  beneath  the  Heaven 
Blooms  not  so  fair  a  flower 
As  love  that's  freely  given. 

Dear  youth,  have  not  these  eyes, 
To  thine  so  oft  returning, 

8* 


102 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Ah  !  say,  have  not  these  tell-tale  sighs, 
These  cheeks  with  blushes  burning, 
My  every  thought  bespoken  ? 
Do  these  denote  disguise  ? 
Do  these  false  love  betoken  ? 

Oh  !  bliss,  all  bliss  transcending, 

When  souls  congenial  blending, 

The  sacred  flame  inspire 

Of  love's  etherial  fire. 

Such  love,  from  change  secure, 

For  ever  shall  endure. 

True  love  like  this,  of  heavenly  birth, 

Not  here  confin'd  to  mortal  earth, 

Shall  to  immortal  Heaven  aspire. 


OLD    D  OBBIN. 


OH  MUSE  !  I  feel  my  genius  rise 

On  soaring  pinions  to  the  skies. 

Whom  shall  I  sing  ?     The  Muse  replies  — 

Old  Dobbin. 

Come  then,  sweet  Goddess,  come,  I  pray, 
Assist  me  with  responsive  lay, 
To  all  I  sing  you  need  but  say 

Old  Dobbin. 

Who,  in  this  world  of  varying  ill, 
Keeps  on  his  even  tenor  still, 
Nor  fails  his  duty  to  fulfil  ? 

Old  Dobbin. 


104  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Who,  while  with  passions  men  are  blind, 
Ne'er  lets  impatience  stir  his  mind, 
But  jogs  on  steady,  slow  and  kind  ? 

Old  Dobbin. 

Who,  ne'er  for  taunt  nor  scoff  will  budge, 
But  goes  along  with  easy  trudge, 
As  grave  and  solemn  as  a  judge  ? 

Old  Dobbin. 

Who  like  a  Stoick,  scorns  disgrace, 
Nor  e'er  exults  in  pride  of  place, 
But  does  each  task  with  equal  grace  ? 

Old  Dobbin. 

Who  then,  celestial  Muse,  may  claim 
The  high  reward  of  spotless  fame, 
The  glory  of  a  deathless  name  ? 

Old  Dobbin. 


LINE  S 


ADDRESSED    TO    A    LADY,  AS     AN    APOLOGY    FOR    NOT    ACCEPTING    HER 

INVITATION    tO    A    BALL.— WRITTEN    MANY 

YEARS    AGO. 


FULL  well  I  know  what  direful  wrath  impends, 

From  Fashion's  gay  and  numerous  host  of  friends, 

O'er  all  who  blindly  list  not  in  her  cause, 

Nor  swear  eternal  fealty  to  her  laws. 

I  know  with  what  despotic  sway  she  rules 

O'er  old  and  young,  o'er  wise  as  well  as  fools ; 

In  what  imperious  tones  she  bids  the  throng 

Obey  her  word,  though  Heav'n  pronounce  it  wrong. 


106  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Yet,  though  my  crimes  against  this  power  so  high 

Be  numberless,  and  oft  of  deepest  dye, 

Leave  I  entreat  to  extenuate  my  blame  : 

A  right  which  guiltiest  criminals  may  claim  ; 

E'en  they  who  fly  not  at  a  Lady's  call, 

And  dare  withstand  the  attraction  of  a  ball. 

Of  magic  zones  and  rings  you  oft  have  heard, 

By  faries  on  their  favorites  conferred, 

Which  pinch'd  the  wearers  sore,  or  made  them  bleed, 

Whene'er  they  went  astray  in  thought  or  deed. 

Nor  think  these  stories  false  because  they're  old, 

But  true  as  this  which  soon  I  will  unfold. 

Sweet  sleep  had  shed  its  mists  around  my  eyes, 
And  fancy's  motley  forms  began  to  rise, 
When,  'mid  these  fleeting  phantoms  of  the  night, 
A  vision  stood  distinct  before  my  sight. 
Though  far  below  the  human  size  it  seem'd 
A  dazzling  brightness  from  its  visage  beam'd. 
My  airy  dreams  it  seem'd  to  chase  away, 
And  thus  in  sweetest  accents  deign'd  to  say : 


AN    APOLOGY.  107 

"  Hail,  Youth  !     In  me  behold  a  friendly  power, 

Thy  guard  in  every  place,  at  every  hour, 

Who  thus  appear  expos'd  to  mortal  view, 

Clearly  to  mark  the  course  you  should  pursue. 

To  me  'tis  giv'n  your  virtue  to  secure 

From  custom's  force  and  pleasure's  dangerous  lure. 

I  watch  the  motions  of  your  youthful  mind, 

Rejoicing  when  to  virtue  'tis  inclin'd  ; 

But  when  a  growing  folly  is  descried, 

To  root  it  out,  no  art  I  leave  untried. 

Those  drugs  I  mix  in  pleasure's  luscious  bowl 

Which  pain  the  body  to  preserve  the  soul. 

That  listlessness,  those  qualms,  those  aches  I  send 

Which  dissipation's  giddy  round  attend. 

Nor  let  these  warnings,  by  your  Guardian  giv'n, 

By  winning  pleasure  from  your  thoughts  be  driv'n. 

For  if,  regardless  of  my  friendly  voice, 

In  Fashion's  gaudy  scenes  your  heart  rejoice, 

Dire  punishments  shall  fall  upon  your  head : 

Disgust,  and  fretfulness,  and  secret  dread. 

Unmeaning  forms  shall  swim  before  your  eyes, 

Wild  as  the  clouds  which  float  in  vernal  skies. 


108  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

But  if  true  wisdom  all  your  thoughts  employ, 

I  promise  lasting  peace  and  health  and  joy. 

A  mind  untouch'd  by  malice  or  by  spleen 

Shall  make  your  slumbers  light,  your  thoughts  serene  ; 

And  through  the  ills  which  mortals  must  betide 

I  still  will  be  your  counsellor  and  guide." 

So  spoke  the  friendly  power ;  then,  waving  light 
His  azure  pinions,  vanish Jd  from  my  sight. 
Such  is  the  guardian  Genius,  ever  near, 
Whose  love  I  strive  to  gain,  whose  wrath  I  fear. 
But,  when  his  favoring  smiles  I  would  secure, 
Complaining  friendship's  frown  I  oft  endure ; 
And  now,  for  open  breach  of  Fashion's  laws, 
A  criminal,  am  forc'd  to  plead  my  cause. 
Such  is  my  lot ;  and  though  I  guilty  prove, 
Compassion  sure  my  Judge's  breast  will  move. 
Not  pardon  for  my  fault  I  hope  to  find  ; 
But  humbly  pray,  you'll  change  to  one  more  kind 
The  threaten'd  sentence,  cruel  as  'tis  hard, 
To  lose  forever  your  benign  regard. 


ANSWEE,  TO  THE     PRECEDING, 


BY   MR.   WM.   BARD. 


SINCE  you  are  vexed,  dear  Clem  at  night, 

By  some  uncourtly  angry  spright, 

Who  would  thy  joys  restrain : 

I  now  this  invitation  send, 

That  previous  dreams  may  you  defend 

From  anguish,  grief  and  pain. 

To  keep  from  all,  the  smallest  treats, 
If  not  forewarned  by  direful  threats 


110  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Of  pinches,  aches  and  sorrow  ; 
Some  fair  ones  whom  you  once  admired, 
When  by  no  waspish  sylph  inspired, 
Expect  you  here  to-morrow. 

But  sure  I  am,  no  heavenly  power, 
Can  e'er  refuse  the  mirthful  hour, 
Dear  Clem  to  me  or  you ; 
Old  Homer  tells,  the  Gods  would  sing, 
In  dancing  too  would  join  the  ring. 
Then  why  not  mortals  too? 

This  Sylph  who  plagues  you  thus  by  night 

Must  surely  be  some  surly  spright, 

Or  e'en  no  spright  at  all ; 

No  good  objection  can  he  find, 

To  mirth  with  innocence  combined. 

Nor  even  to  a  Ball. 


TRANSLATION 


OF   ONE   OF   THE   CHORUSES   IN   THE   PROMETHEUS   OF   AESCHYLUS. 


OH,  may  no  thought  of  mine  e'er  move 
The  vengeance  of  almighty  Jove  ! 
Ne'er  shall  my  incense  cease  to  rise, 
Due  to  the  Powers  who  rule  the  skies, 
From  all  the  watery  domains 
O'er  which  my  Father  Ocean  reigns. 
And  till  his  towering  billows  cease 
To  roll,  lull'd  in  eternal  peace, 


*  Prometheus  is  represented  as  chained  to  a  rock  by  the  command  of 
Jupiter,  for  having  conveyed  fire  from  Heaven,  and  having  taught  the  use  of 
it  to  men ;  for  having  also  instructed  them  in  many  useful  arts,  of  which  it 
had  been  decreed  that  they  should  remain  ignorant.  The  chorus  is  com 
posed  of  Sea-Nymphs,  by  whom  the  address  is  made. 


112  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


Ne'er  shall  an  impious  word  of  mine 
Irreverence  mark  to  power  divine. 

Lightly  flew  my  former  days, 
With  not  a  cloud  to  dim  the  rays 
Of  hope,  which  promis'd  peace  to  send. 
And  golden  pleasures  without  end. 
But  what  a  blast  now  mars  my  bliss, 
Prometheus,  at  a  scene  like  this. 
While  thus  thy  tortures  I  behold, 
I  shudder  at  the  thoughts  so  bold 
Which  could  impel  thee  to  withstand, 
For  mortal  man,  Jove's  dread  command. 

Where's  now  the  aid  from  mortals  due 
For  all  thy  deeds  of  love  so  true  ? 
Alas  !  their  shadowy  strength  is  vain 
As  dreams  which  haunt  the  feverish  brain. 
How  then  can  fleeting  shades  like  these 
Oppose  the  mighty  Thunderer's  decrees  ? 

Such  thoughts  will  rise,  such  strains  will  flow, 
Prometheus,  at  thy  bitter  woe. 


TRANSLATION.  113 

How  different  were  the  strains  we  sang 
When  round  thy  bridal  chamber  rang 
The  voices  of  the  choral  throng 
Who  pour'd  the  hymeneal  song 
To  thee,  and  to  thy  joy,  thy  pride, 
Hesione  thy  blooming  bride  ! 


LINES 


ACCOMPANYING   SOME    BALLS    MADE    FOR   A   FRAGMENT   FAIR,    AT   THE 
REQUEST   OF   A   YOUNG    LADY. 


MY  merry  friend,  your  balls  are  wound  ; 
And  glad  I'll  be,  if  they  can  bound 
As  light  and   brisk  as  you. 
Some  thoughts,  the  ravelings  of  my  brain, 
Which  here  I've  wrought  into  a  skein, 
Ask  your  acceptance  too. 

Mid  baubles  that  attract  mankind, 
We  oft  some  sober  hint  may  find, 
Our  reason  to  employ. 


LINES   FOR    A    FRAGMENT    FAIR. 

To  those  who  view  the  world  aright, 
There  may  arise  a  moral  light 
E'en  from  the  merest  toy. 

These  balls,  so  round  and  smooth  and  new, 
Have  much  within  them,  hid  from  view, 
That's  worthless,  when  alone. 

How  like  is  this  to  many  a  wight 

f. 

Whose  charms  would  vanish  from  the  sight, 
Could  but  his  heart  be  shown  ! 

Yet,  if  our  thought  again  we  turn, 
An  emblem  here  we  may  discern 
Of  what's  oft  seen  on  earth  : 
For,  e'en  the  vicious  and  the  loose 
May  still  be  found  to  have  their  use, 
When  awed  by  solid  worth. 

What  are  those  forms,  so  neat  and  light, 
Of  dazzling  hues  and  purest  white, 
That  grace  your  annual  fair  ? 


116  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

They're  shreds,  and  patches,  and  odd  ends, 
The  useless  rubbish  each  one  sends, 
Dispos'd  with  taste  and  care. 

How  much  that  meets  our  ears  and  eyes, 
Of  what  the  world  calls  great  and  wise, 
Is  like  that  showy  scene ! 
Could  we  but  view  the  secret  springs 
Of  many  fair  and  specious  things, 
How  chang'd  would  be  their  mien  ! 

And  yet  again,  we  there  are  taught 

The  powerful  sway  that  mind  and  thought 

O'er  senseless  matter  hold  ; 

How  genius  can,  with  plastic  hand, 

In  all  we  see  some  worth  command, 

Or  hidden  charm  unfold. 

May  you  and  each  industrious  maid 
Whose  skillful  hands  have  lent  their  aid 
To  deck  the  fairy  show, 


LINES    FOR   A    FRAGMENT    FAIR.  H7 

Be  deep  impress'd  by  your  own  work 
How  much  that's  false  and  weak  may  lurk 
Where  brightest  colours  glow. 

May  your  affections  there  incline 
Where  native  worth  and  virtue  shine 
Unchang'd  by  specious  art ; 
Where  all  is  natural,  frank,  and  kind  ; 
Where  Truth's  all-piercing  eye  would  find 
A  sound  and  loyal  heart. 


TO  A  LADY. 


THY  dimpled  girls  and  rosy  boys 
Rekindle  in  thy  heart  the  joys 

That  bless'd  thy  tender  years : 
Unheeded  fleet  the  hours  away  ; 
For,  while  thy  cherubs  round  thee  play, 

New  life  thy  bosom  cheers. 

Once  more,  thou  tell'st  me,  I  may  taste, 
Ere  envious  time  this  frame  shall  waste, 
My  infant  pleasures  flown. 


TO   A   LADY.  119 

Ah  !  there's  a  ray,  of  lustre  mild, 
Illumes  the  bosom  of  a  child, 
To  age,  alas  !  scarce  known. 

Not  for  my  infant  pleasures  past 

I  mourn  ;  those  joys  which  flew  so  fast, 

They  too  had  many  a  stain  ; 
But  for  the  mind,  so  pure  and  light, 
Which  made  those  joys  so  fair,  so  bright, 

I  sigh,  and  sigh  in  vain. 

Well  I  remember  you,  blest  hours  ! 

Your  sunbeams  bright,  your  transient  showers  — 

Thoughtless  I  saw  you  fly; 
For  distant  ills  then  caus'd  no  dread, 
Nor  cared  I  for  the  moments  fled, 

For  memory  calPd  no  sigh. 

Fond  parents  swayed  my  every  thought ; 
No  blame  I  feared,  no  praise  I  sought, 
But  what  their  love  bestowed  : 


120  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Full  soon  I  learn'd  each  meaning  look  j 
Nor  e'er  the  angry  glance  mistook 
For  that  where  rapture  glowed. 

Whene'er  night's  shadows  call'd  to  rest, 
I  sought  my  father,  to  request 

His  benediction  mild : 
A  mother's  love  more  loud  would  speak, 
With  kiss  on  kiss  she'd  print  my  cheek, 

And  bless  her  darling  child. 

Thy  lightest  mists  and  clouds,  sweet  sleep  ! 
Thy  purest  opiates  thou  dost  keep, 

On  infancy  to  shed. 

No  guilt  there  checks  thy  soft  embrace, 
And  not  e'en  tears  and  sobs  can  chase 

Thee  from  an  infant's  bed. 

The  trickling  tears  which  flow'd  at  night, 
Oft  hast  thou  stay'd,  'till  morning  light 
Dispell'd  my  little  woes. 


TO    A    LADY. 

So  fly  before  the  sunbeam's  power 
The  remnants  of  the  evening  shower 
Which  wet  the  early  rose. 

Farewell,  bless'd  hours !  full  fast  ye  flew, 
And  that  which  made  your  bliss  so  true 

Ye  would  not  leave  behind. 
The  glow  of  youth  ye  could  not  leave ; 
But  why,  why  cruelly  bereave 

Me  of  my  artless  mind  ? 

Childhood's  unwrinkled  front  so  fair, 
So  smooth,  so  free  from  touch  of  care, 

Must  feel  the  hand  of  age : 
But  can  no  power  preserve  the  soul 
Unharm'd  by  pleasure's  soft  coatrol, 

Nor  rent  by  passion's  rage  ? 

The  changes  which  o'ertake  our  frame, 
Alas !  are  emblems  of  the  same 
Which  on  the  mind  attend. 


10 


122 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Yet  who  reviews  the  course  he  has  run, 
But  thinks  were  life  once  more  begun, 
Unspotted  it  should  end  ? 

Fond  Mother!  hope  thy  bosom  warms 
That  on  the  prattler  in  thy  arms 

Heaven's  choicest  gifts  will  flow. 
Thus  let  thy  prayer  incessant  rise 
To  Him  who,  thron'd  above  the  skies, 

Can  feel  for  man  below. 

"  O !  Thou,  whose  view  is  ne'er  estrang'd 
From  innocence,  preserve  unchang'd 

Through  life  my  darling's  mind ; 
Unchang'd  in  truth  and  purity, 
Still  fearless  of  futurity, 

Still  artless,  though  refin'd. 

"  A.S  oft  his  anxious  nurse  hath  caught 
And  sav'd  his  little  hand  that  sought 
The  bright,  but  treacherous,  blaze ; 


TO    A   LADY.  123 

So  let  fair  Wisdom  keep  him  sure 

From  glittering  vices  which  allure, 

Through  life's  delusive  maze. 

"  Oh !  may  the  ills  which  man  enshroud, 
As  shadows  of  a  transient  cloud, 

But  shade,  not  stain  my  boy. 
Then  may  he  gently  drop  to  rest, 
Calm  as  a  child  by  sleep  oppress'd 

And  wake  to  endless  joy." 


A  VISIT  FROM  ST.  NICHOLAS 


'TWAS  the  night  before  Christmas,  when  all  through  the 

house 

Not  a  creature  was  stirring,  not  even  a  mouse ; 
The  stockings  were  hung  by  the  chimney  with  care, 
In  hopes  that  ST.  NICHOLAS  soon  would  be  there ; 
The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their  beds, 
While  visions  of  sugar-plums  danced  in  their  heads ; 
And  Mamma  in  her  'kerchief,  and  I  in  my  cap, 
Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a  long  winter's  nap ; 


With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and  quick, 
I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick. 
More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they  came, 
And  he  whistled,  and  shouted,  and  called  them  by  name ; 
'  Now,  Dasher !  now,  Dancer !  now,  Prance r  and  Vixen ! 
On  !  Comet,  on !  Cupid,  on !  Dunder  and  Blitzen— 
To  the  top  of  the  porch,  to  the  top  of  the  wall ! 
Now,  dash  away,  dash  away,  dash  away  all !" 


A    VISIT   FROM    ST.    NICHOLAS.  125 

When  out  on  the  lawn  there  arose  such  a  clatter, 

I  sprang  from  the  bed  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

Away  to  the  window  I  flew  like  a  flash, 

Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the  sash. 

The  moon  on  the  breast  of  the  new-fallen  snow, 

Gave  the  lustre  of  mid-day  to  objects  below. 

When,  what  to  my  wondering  eyes  should  appear, 

But  a  miniature  sleigh,  and  eight  tiny  rein-deer, 

With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and  quick, 

I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick. 

More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they  came, 

And  he  whistled,  and  shouted,  and  called  them  by  name  ; 

"  Now,    Dasher  f  now,    Dancer !    now,    Prancer    and 

Vixen  ! 

On,  Comet  I  on,  Cupid  f  on,  Donder  and  Blitzen  ! 
To  the  top  of  the  porch !  to  the  top  of  the  wall ! 
Now  dash  away !  dash  away !  dash  away  all ! " 
As  dry  leaves  that  before  the  wild  hurricane  fly, 
When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle,  mount  to  the  sky ; 
So  up  to  the  house-top  the  coursers  they  flew, 
With  the  sleigh  full  of  Toys,  and  St.  Nicholas  too. 


10* 


126  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


And  then,  in  a  twinkling,  I  heard  on  the  roof, 
The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  little  hoof — 
As  I  drew  in  my  head,  and  was  turning  around, 
Down  the  chimney  St.  Nicholas  came  with  a  bound. 
He  was  dressed  all  in  fur,  from  his  head  to  his  foot, 
And  his  clothes  were  all  tarnished  with  ashes  and  soot ; 
A  bundle  of  Toys  he  had  flung  on  his  back, 
And  he  look'd  like  a  pedlar  just  opening  his  pack. 
His  eyes  —  how  they  twinkled  !  his  dimples  how  merry  ! 
His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a  cherry  ! 
His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  like  a  bow, 
And  the  beard  of  his  chin  was  as  white  as  the  snow  ; 
The  stump  of  a  pipe  he  held  tight  in  his  teeth, 
And  the  smoke  it  encircled  his  head  like  a  wreath ; 
He  had  a  broad  face  and  a  little  round  belly, 
That  shook  when  he  laughed,  like  a  bowlfull  of  jelly. 
He  was  chubby  and  plump,  a  right  jolly  old  elf, 
And  I  laughed  when  I  saw  him,  in  spite  of  myself, 
A  wink  of  his  eye  and  a  twist  of  his  head, 
Soon  gave  me  to  know  I  had  nothing  to  dread  ; 
He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  went  straight  to  his  work, 


A    VISIT   FROM    ST.    NICHOLAS. 

And  fill'd  all  the  stockings ;  then  turned  with  a  jerk, 

And  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose, 

And  giving  a  nod,  up  the  chimney  he  rose  ; 

He  sprang  to  his  sleigh,  to  his  team  gave  a  whistle, 

And  away  they  all  flew  like  the  down  of  a  thistle. 

But  I  heard  him  exclaim,  ere  he  drove  out  of  sight, 

"  Happy  Christmas  to  all,  and  to  all  a  good  night." 


FROM  A  HUSBAND  TO  HIS  WIFE. 


THE  dreams  of  Hope  that  round  us  play, 
And  lead  along  our  early  youth, 

How  soon,  alas !  they  fade  away 
Before  the  sober  rays  of  Truth. 

And  yet  there  are  some  joys  in  life 
That  Fancy's  pencil  never  drew  j 

For  Fancy's  self,  my  own  dear  wife, 
Ne'er  dreamt  the  bliss  I  owe  to  you. 


FROM    A   HUSBAND   TO    HIS   WIFE. 


You  have  awaken'd  in  my  breast 

Some  chords  I  ne'er  before  had  known  ; 

And  you've  imparted  to  the  rest 
A  stronger  pulse,  a  deeper  tone. 

And  e'en  the  troubles  that  we  find 

Our  peace  oft  threat'ning  to  o'erwhelm, 

Like  foreign  foes,  but  serve  to  bind 
More  close  in  love  our  little  realm. 

I've  not  forgot  the  magic  hour 

When  youthful  passion  first  I  knew  ; 

When  early  love  was  in  its  flower, 
And  bright  with  ev'ry  rainbow  hue. 

Then,  fairy  visions  lightly  moved, 
And  waken'd  rapture  as  they  pass'd  ; 

But  faith  and  love,  like  yours  approved, 
Give  joys  that  shall  for  ever  last. 

A  spotless  wife's  enduring  love, 
A  darling  infant's  balmy  kiss, 


MISCELLANEOUS     POEMS. 

Breathe  of  the  happiness  above  ; 
Too  perfect  for  a  world  like  this. 

These  heaven-sent  pleasures  seem  too  pure 
To  take  a  taint  from  mortal  breath  ; 

For,  still  unfading,  they  endure 

'Mid  sorrow,  sickness,  pain,  and  death. 

When  cruel  Palsy's  withering  blow 
Had  left  my  father  weak,  forlorn, 

He  yet  could  weep  for  joy,  to  know, 
I  had  a  wish'd-for  infant  born. 

And,  as  he  lay  in  death's  embrace, 

You  saw  when  last  on  earth  he  smil'd ; 

You  saw  the  ray  that  lit  his  face 
When  he  beheld  our  darling  child. 

Strange,  mingled  scene  of  bliss  and  pain ! 

That,  like  a  dream,  before  us  flies ; 
Where,  'midst  illusions  false  and  vain, 

Substantial  joys  are  seen  to  rise. 


FROM   A   HUSBAND   TO    HIS   WIFE. 


When  to  your  heart  our  babes  you  fold, 

With  all  a  mother's  joy  elate, 
I  fondly  think  that  I  behold 

A  vision  of  our  future  state. 

Hope  comes,  with  balmy  influence  fraught, 
To  heal  the  wound  that  rends  my  heart, 

Whene'er  it  meets  the  dreadful  thought 
That  all  our  earthly  ties  must  part. 

Bless'd  hope,  beyond  earth's  narrow  space, 
Within  high  Heaven's  eternal  bound, 

Again  to  see  your  angel  face, 

With  all  your  cherubs  clustering  round. 

Oh !  yes,  there  are  some  beams  of  light 
That  break  upon  this  world  below, 

So  pure,  so  steady,  and  so  bright, 

They  seem  from  better  worlds  to  flow. 

Reflected  images  are  seen 

Upon  this  transient  stream  of  time, 


132  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Through  mists  and  shades  that  intervene, 
Of  things  eternal  and  sublime, 

Then  let  us  rightly  learn  to  know 
These  heavenly  messengers  of  love : 

They  teach  us  whence  true  pleasures  flow, 
And  win  our  thoughts  to  joys  above. 

And  e'en  when  clouds  roll  o'er  our  head, 
Still  let  us  turn  our  longing  eyes 

To  where  Eternal  Love  has  spread 
The  changeless  azure  of  the  skies. 


BY  MY  LATE  WIFE, 


ON    BEING    REQUESTED    TO    WRITE    IN  A.N    ALBUM. 


IN  vain,  dear  Sarah,  you  command, 

In  vain  would  I  obey. 
Fain  would  my,  now  degraded,  hand 

The  heavenly  Lyre  essay. 

Gently  I  try  to  touch  the  chords, 

But  ah !  I  vainly  try. 
My  hand  bestows  its  usual  slap  ; 

The  Lyre  returns  a  cry. 
11 


134  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

I  seek  the  Muse,  with  humble  voice 
Her  sweetest  smiles  to  woo  ; 

In  vain  —  my  tongue  resumes  its  tone, 
And  scolds  when  it  should  sue. 

At  this,  as  you  may  well  suppose, 
No  fav'ring  glance  appears  ; 

And  Helicon,  when  I  would  sip, 
Is  turned  to  briny  tears. 

In  short,  dear  Coz,  Apollo's  now, 

To  me,  an  angry  God. 
My  music  now  is  cries  and  screams, 

My  Lyre  a  Birchen  Rod. 

La  M£re  de  Cinq  Enfans. 


LINE  S 


SENT    WITH    A    BUNCH    OF     FLOWERS     TO    A    FRIEND  —  MARCH,     1842. 


THERE  is  a  language  giv'n  to  flowers, 
By  which  a  lover  may  impart 

The  bitter  anguish  that  devours, 
Or  extacy  that  swells  his  heart. 

And  all  the  feelings  of  the  breast, 
Between  the  extremes  of  bliss  and  wo, 

By  tender  flow'rets  are  exprest, 

Or  plants  that  in  the  wild  wood  grow. 


136 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

These  new-cull'd  blossoms  which  I  send, 
With  breath  so  sweet  and  tints  so  gay, 

I  truly  know  not,  my  kind  friend, 
In  Flora's  language  what  they  say  ; 

Nor  which  one  hue  I  should  select, 
Nor  how  they  all  should  be  combined, 

That  at  a  glance,  you  might  detect 
The  true  emotions  of  my  mind. 

But,  as  the  rainbow's  varied  hues, 
If  mingled  in  proportions  right, 

All  their  distinctive  radiance  lose, 
And  only  show  unspotted  white. 

Thus,  into  one  I  would  combine 
These  colors  that  so  various  gleam, 

And  bid  this  offering  only  shine 

With  friendship's  pure  and  tranquil  beam. 


ANSWER  TO  THE  PRECEDING-, 


BY   MR.   P.   HONE. 


FILL'D  as  thou  art  with  attic  fire, 
And  skill 'd  in  classic  lore  divine, 
Not  yet  content,  woulds't  thou  aspire 
In  Flora's  gorgeous  wreath  to  shine  ? 
Woulds't  thou  in  language  of  the  rose 
Lessons  of  wisdom  seek  t'impart, 
Or  in  the  violet's  breath  disclose 
The  feelings  of  a  generous  heart  ? 
11* 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Come  as  thou  wilt,  my  warm  regard 
And  welcome,  shall  thy  steps  attend ; 
Scholar,  musician,  florist,  bard  — 
More  dear  to  me  than  all,  as  friend. 
Bring  flow'rs  and  poesy,  a  goodly  store, 
Like  Dickens'  Oliver.     I  ask  for  Moore. 


LINES 


ADDRESSED  TO  THE  FASHIONABLE    PEOPLE    OF    NEW   YORK,  UPON  THEIR 

RETURN   TO   THE    CITY,   AFTER    THE    DISAPPEARANCE    OF   THE 

YELLOW  FEVER  IN  THE   AUTUMN   OF  


DREAD  pestilence  hath  now  fled  far  away  ; 
And  life  and  health,  once  more,  around  us  play ; 
The  din  of  commerce  spreads  from  street  to  street ; 
And  parted  friends  with  new  warm'd  friendship  meet. 
Now  many-colour'd  nymphs,  in  noon-tide  rows, 
To  gazing  eyes  fresh-gather'd  charms  disclose. 
Welcome !  all  welcome  to  your  wish'd  abodes  : 
But  chiefly  you  who,  skill'd  in  pleasure's  modes, 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Forbid  your  thoughts  on  humbler  themes  to  dwell, 
Receive  the  welcome  of  a  veteran  belle 
Whose  heart's  now  dancing  at  the  visions  bright 
Of  high  exploits  that  play  in  fancy's  sight. 
Now  haste  we  to  our  winter's  lov'd  campaign, 
Arm'd  for  the  glorious  contests  we  maintain  ; 
For  wars  with  all  the  rules  grave  matron's  teach, 
Cold  casuists  applaud,  or  parsons  preach. 

Courage  !  dear  friends  ;  our  cause  shall  yet  prevail. 
But  there  are  notions,  hatch'd  from  doctrines  stale, 
'Gainst  which  'twere  well  your  valorous  souls  to  guard ; 
For  trifles  oft  e'en  conquerors  retard. 

We're  told  by  moralists  and  dull  divines 
That  no  pursuit  becomes  us  which  confines 
Our  highest  wishes  to  mere  sensual  joys, 
And  thought  of  dread  futurity  destroys. 
They  hold  it  not,  indeed,  true  wisdom's  part 
To  wear  grief's  impress  ever  in  the  heart ; 
But  deem  "the  oblivious  temper  of  our  mind 
For  noble  purposes  by  Heaven  design'd ; 


FROM    A    VETERAN    BELLE. 

To  aid  mortality  beneath  the  weigh* 

Of  evils  which  oppress  our  tottering  state ; 

To  check  despair,  and  give  our  reason  play ; 

Reason,  which  calls  from  anxious  cares  away, 

And  teaches  to  behold,  with  minds  serene, 

The  joys  and  ills  that  crowd  life's  motley  scene. 

Try  now  this  antique  stuff  by  reason's  test. 

All  science  and  all  rules  of  action  rest 

On  few  clear  principles  assum'd  as  true. 

The  rule  we,  frolic's  children,  keep  in  view 

Is  this  plain  truth,  whence  all  true  precepts  flow  ; 

Pleasure's  the  worthiest  object  man  can  know. 

Not  pleasure  felt  by  intellect  alone ; 
Nor  dreams  of  bliss  in  distant  prospect  shown ; 
But  solid  pleasure,  present  and  secure ; 
All  that  can  flatter  passion,  sense  allure. 
Let  no  vain  fears  this  golden  maxim  hide, 
But  let  heart-chilling  laws  by  this  be  tried ; 
Then  mark  how  emptily  those  croakers  prate 
Of  what  beseems  our  frail  inconstant  state. 


142 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


Our  frailty  well  w£  know ;  and  'tis  for  this 
We  should  forget  futurity's  abyss, 
And  snatch  from  ruthless  Time  each  proffered  joy. 
Shall  we,  like  drowsy  dotards,  e'er  destroy 
Our  blissful  sports  by  thought  ?  of  ills  the  worst 
With  which  humanity  by  Heaven  is  curst  ? 
Thought !  which  forever  tells  some  hateful  truth ; 
Says,  wintry  age  must  chill  the  glow  of  youth ; 
To  towering  strength  decrepitude  foretells, 
And  wrinkles  to  the  cheek  where  beauty  dwells  ? 
Drive,  drive  the  fiend  forever  from  your  breasts ; 
On  thoughtlessness  alone  your  pleasure  rests. 

We  late,  you  know,  were  chas'd  by  panic  fears  : 
'Tis  then  but  just  to  claim  the  due  arrears 
Of  pleasure  thus  detain'd,  and  to  our  store 
Of  present  joys  add  those  withheld  before. 

Let  listless  drones  serenity  approve  • 

In  no  dull  medium  let  us  deign  to  move. 

Society  is  like  a  running  wheel ; 

All  parts  the  same  progressive  impulse  feel ; 


FROM    A     VETERAN    BELLE.  143 

And  yet,  towards  happiness,  the  general  end, 
These  various  parts  with  different  motions  tend. 
Calm  conscientious  minds  the  centre  hold ; 
While  we  are  in  the  swift  circumference  roll'd. 
Those  at  the  centre  keep  an  even  way  ; 
We  in  eccentric  movements  round  them  play. 
In  quick  vicissitudes  we're  whirl'd  around ; 
Now  rais'd  on  high,  now  low  upon  the  ground. 
We  spurn  the  safe  unchanging  course  they  keep  ; 
And,  while  they  calmly  take  their  central  sleep, 
We  rush  like  wind,  we  make  the  sparkles  fly ; 
We  raise  the  dust,  and  plunge  through  wet  and  dry; 
We  splash  the  folk,  and  make  the  world  all  know 
Our  rattling  shall  be  heard  where'er  we  go. 

"  Enough  of  argument ; "  I  hear  you  cry, 

"  Where  pleasure  calls  we'll  like  the  lightning  fly. 

"  Come  then,  ye  lofty  favorers  of  the  dance 
And  splendid  feast,  whom  fortune's  gifts  advance 
To  eminence  in  Fashion's  wide  domain ; 
Whose  bright  example  leads  a  mimic  train, 


144  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

With  eager  steps,  your  flowery  paths  to  tread  ; 

Whose  ire  all  deprecate  with  deeper  dread 

Than  wrath  of  Heav'n  ;  for  how  can  Heav'n  assist 

The  heart  that  mourns  an  invitation  miss'd  ? 

Come  forth  with  all  your  gay  munificence, 

And  teach  mankind  that  true  pre-eminence, 

True  dignity,  from  outward  grandeur  springs  ; 

That  they  rise  highest  in  the  scale  of  things 

At  whose  command  the  guests  most  numerous  throng  ; 

Whose  halls  ring  oftenest  with  the  dance  and  song ; 

Who  Nature's  ill-fram'd  laws  most  boldly  slight ; 

Convert  the  night  to  day,  and  day  to  night ; 

Decrepitude  in  youthful  sports  engage  ; 

And  teach  to  youth  the  confidence  of  age. 

"  To  arms  !  ye  ever-ready  belles,  to  arms  ! 
Sharpen  each  glance,  and  brighten  all  your  charms. 
Arouse !  ye  gallant  beaux,  at  Fashion's  call. 
She,  to  excuse  you  from  the  feast  or  ball, 
Will  heed  no  specious  plea  by  sloth  alleg'd. 
And  chiefly  you,  ye  beaux  with  chins  unfledg'd, 


FROM   A   VETERAN    BELLE. 

Who  wisely  quit  your  Algebra  and  Greek, 
True  honor  in  our  well-throng'd  school  to  seek, 
Now  quickly  muster  all  your  hopeful  band, 
Train'd  by  our  care,  the  glory  of  the  land. 
How  bright  ye  shine  beyond  those  awkward  clowns 
Who  care  for  none  but  their  preceptor's  frowns  ; 
Who  heed  their  noisy  sports  and  cross-grain'd  books 
More  than  the  fairest  fair-one's  sweetest  looks. 

"  Men  are  too  oft  by  this  persuasion  led ; 
That  care  is  due  supremely  to  the  head. 
But  you,  ne'er  let  your  learned  feet  forget 
Their  chassez,  pigeon-wing  and  pirouette  ; 
And  let  mankind  by  your  example  know, 
The  head's  no  worthier  member  than  the  toe. 

"  Ye  tawny  minstrels  ;  wake  your  viols  sweet 
Whose  measures  guide  our  lightly  tripping  feet. 
Our  life,  deprived  of  you,  were  worse  than  death. 
Your  heavenly  notes  are  pleasure's  vital  breath. 
How  oft  does  gloom  the  crowded  hall  pervade  : 
In  vain  the  hostess  smiles,  the  beaux  upbraid ; 
12 


145 


146 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


The  whispering  murmurs  rise,  the  gape  goes  round ; 

Decorum's  self  in  weariness  is  drown'd. 

But  let  your  magic  string's  approaching  twang 

Be  heard,  and  feast  of  Comus  sure  ne'er  rang 

With  keener  ecstacy  and  mirth  more  loud 

Than  burst  tumultuous  from  the  wakening  crowd. 

Thus,  when  some  bark's  becalm'd  upon  the  deep, 

The  listless  passengers  lie  press'd  with  sleep 

And  lassitude ;  the  moments  scarce  creep  by ; 

And  Sol  seems  weary  as  he  climbs  the  sky. 

But,  when  the  skilful  mariner  foresees, 

By  tokens  sure,  a  fair  approaching  breeze, 

Then  instant  life  appears  in  every  part ; 

All  spring  alert,  for  joy  fills  every  heart ; 

With  various  notes  the  coming  breeze  they  hail ; 

Strain  every  rope,  and  set  each  swelling  sail. 

"  Ye  powers  of  sport !  I'm  madden'd  with  delight 
By  visions  flying  round,  as  meteors  bright. 
Cotillions,  concerts,  fiddlers,  mirth's  whole  train 
Of  countless  joys,  rush  wildly  through  my  brain. 


FROM    A    VETERAN    BELLE. 

Oh !  may  the  phrenzy  catch  from  soul  to  soul ; 
May  all  who  now  own  sober  law's  control 
Acknowledge  law  mere  breath,  mere  ink  and  paper, 
And  starch  morality  not  worth  a  caper," 


147 


TO  THE  NYMPHS  OF  MOUNT  HARMONY, 


AN  idle  swain  late  chanc'd  to  roam 
Beneath  a  grove's  leaf-lattic'd  dome, 
That  near  a  verdant  mount  was  plac'd 
Whose  brow  no  title  e'er  had  grac'd 
Till  nymphs  declared  the  mount  should  claim 
Sweet  Harmony's  inspiring  name. 
Here,  as  the  swain  at  even  strayed, 
Wooed  by  the  grove's  sequester'd  shade, 


TO    THE   NYMPHS   OF   MOUNT   HA.RMONY. 

With  thoughts  unfix'd,  and  vacant  eye, 
And  idly  sad,  he  scarce  knew  why ; 
A  mournful  spirit  of  the  wood, 
Touch'd  haply,  by  his  kindred  mood, 
Soft -sighing  from  a  hawthorn  near, 
Thus  whisper'd  in  his  wond'ring  ear. 

"  A  sprite  I  was,  in  happier  times, 

Disporting  in  the  favor'd  climes 

Of  early  Greece ;  when  freedom's  ray 

Bade  mirth  through  all  her  regions  play  ; 

When  wood-nymphs  with  their  huntress- queen, 

The  muses  and  the  loves  were  seen 

To  sport,  like  fawns,  beside  each  rill, 

And  deck,  like  flow'rets,  every  hill, 

'Twas  then  I  serv'd  the  lighter  joys 

Of  rural  nymphs  and  sylvan  boys ; 

And,  sportive  as  the  summer  airs, 

Exulted  in  my  frolic  cares. 

"  Oft,  to  a  playful  zephyr  chang'd, 
Along  the  reedy  banks  I  rang'd  ; 
12* 


149 


150  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Or,  sighing  o'er  the  oaten  field, 

I  tried  the  note  each  stalk  would  yield, 

In  quest  of  dulcet  tones  to  suit 

Some  favor'd  fawn's  or  shepherd's  flute . 

"  Oft,  in  a  fleecy  vapor's  guise, 

The  zephyrs  bore  me  to  the  skies  : 

Where,  'midst  the  clouds  with  thunder  fraught, 

The  rainbow's  brightest  tints  I  caught ; 

Then,  melting  into  finest  dews, 

Distributed  the  lovely  hues 

To  opening  buds,  or  full-blown  flowers, 

Round  naiad's  couch,  or  wood-nymph's  bowers. 

"  Oft,  in  a  virgin  lily's  bell, 

I  caught  the  purest  dews  that  fell, 

With  chaste  suffusion  to  supply 

Some  weeping  Muse's  languid  eye. 

For,  tears  that  from  the  Muses  flow, 

Unlike  the  drops  of  vulgar  wo, 

Emit  the  dew's  inconstant  gleam, 

And  soon  are  chas'd  by  pleasure's  beam  — 


TO  THE  NYMPHS  OF  MOUNT  HARMONY.        151 

"  Dear  airy  partners  in  delight ! 

Who  skimm'd,  like  mists,  the  mountain's  height, 

Or  danc'd  along  the  limpid  stream 

Illum'd  by  freedom's  golden  beam ! 

Ye  perish'd  in  the  floods  and  gales 

That  ruin'd  all  our  smiling  vales, 

And  chill 'd  and  wither'd  every  bloom 

In  tyranny's  detested  gloom  ! 

"  A  fiend  that  in  the  tempest  flew 
On  wing  still  wet  with  stygian  dew 
Rapt  me  in  a  hurling  blast 
Athwart  the  ocean's  dreary  vast ; 
And  set  me,  with  infernal  spell, 
In  this  sequester'd  grove  to  dwell. 
Here,  in  my  lonely  prison  bound, 
Beset  with  dire  enchantments  round, 
I've  seen  whole  ages  ling'ring  go, 
With  scarce  a  solace  for  my  wo ; 
Till  late,  beneath  the  neighb'ring  shades, 
Methought  a  band  of  Tempe's  maids, 


152  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

With  all  their  wonted  mirth  elate, 

Came,  destin'd  by  relenting  fate, 

Their  long,  long  rovings  here  to  cease, 

And  charm  my  anguish  into  peace. 

For,  as  they  gambol 'd  o'er  the  green, 

Once  more  I  saw  Arcadia's  scene ; 

Again  I  heard  each  well-lov'd  voice 

That  bade  the  Aonian  hills  rejoice. 

But  soon  the  lovely  vision  pass'd. 

Through  lonely  shades  now  sweeps  the  blast, 

Where,  late,  the  fairy-footed  throng 

Prolong' d  the  dance,  or  pour'd  the  song. 

If  e'er  thy  bosom,  gentle  swain, 

Was  touch'd  with  sympathetic  pain, 

Hie  thee  to  where  the  nymphs  now  dwell, 

And  all  my  sorrows  kindly  tell. 

And  say,  if  e'er  this  lone  retreat 

Their  lovely  band  again  shall  greet, 

I'll  wake  my  long-neglected  powers  ; 

Refine  the  dews,  new-tint  the  flowers. 

I'll  fringe  the  trees  with  speckled  moss, 

And  give  their  leaves  a  finer  gloss. 


TO    THE    NYMPHS    OF   MOUNT   HARMONY.  153 

The  painted  fly  shall  learn  to  fling 
Sweet  odors  from  his  gaudy  wing. 
I'll  winnow,  with  my  silken  sails, 
Each  noxious  breath  that  taints  the  gales ; 
With  sweeter  strains  the  birds  inspire, 
And  lead,  myself,  the  tuneful  choir. 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY,  ON  HER  BIHTH-DAY. 


To  hail  thy  natal  day,  fair  maid, 
Once  more  I  wake  the  lyre ; 

Once  more  invoke  each  favoring  muse 
My  accents  to  inspire. 

But  frown  not  if  my  humble  strain 

No  soothing  homage  pay 
To  all  the  charms  that  grace  thy  mind, 

Or  round  thy  features  play. 


TO    A    YOUNG    LADY. 

Alas  !  the  brightest  charms  but  yield 

A  taper's  trembling  light ; 
When  fann'd  by  praise,  awhile  they  glare, 

Then  vanish  from  the  sight ; 

Or,  like  the  soft  unsullied  snows 

That  fall  in  graceful  play, 
They  shrink  beneath  the  gentlest  touch, 

And,  silent,  melt  away. 

Nor  shall  the  Muse  thy  foibles  mark 

With  keen  relentless  eye, 
That  seem  like  clouds  of  lightest  wing 

That  speck  the  vernal  sky. 

O  !  may  young  life's  empurpled  morn, 
Still  mantling  round  thy  head, 

Its  balmly  airs  of  youthful  hope, 
With  kindest  influence,  shed. 

May  every  cloud  of  darker  hue, 
Ere  evening  shades  advance, 


155 


156  MISCELLANEOUS     POEMS. 

Dissolve  away,  or  just  be  seen 
To  skirt  the  blue  expanse. 

And  may  soft  tints  of  rosy  light, 
With  gold  of  purest  ray, 

Their  mild  effulgence  widely  throw 
Around  thy  closing  day. 


LINES 


ON   RECEIVING   FROM    A   FRIEND   A   CARICATURE    CAST  OF  PAGANINI. 


A.CCEPT,  dear  Doctor,  my  unfeigned  thanks 

For  Paganini's  skull  and  claws  and  shanks, 

And  all  the  wreathed  string  of  bones,  beside, 

That  seem  to  grate  within  his  shrivelled  hide. 

One  would  have  thought,  while  yet  the  mimic  form 

Lay  snugly  in  its  wrappers,  soft  and  warm, 

That  'twas  the  cast  of  some  fat  gouty  fellow, 

With  food  surcharg'd,  with  wine  and  wassail,  mellow. 

13 


158 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


And,  when  the  spectral  figure  was  uprear'd, 
It  still,  the  prey  of  strong  disease  appear'd ; 
Like  some  sad  victim,  doom'd  to  writhe  and  twist 
Beneath  the  gripe  of  fierce  Podagra's  fist. 
Who  would  believe  this  skeleton  possess'd 
Of  sovereign  empire  o'er  the  human  breast  ? 
Of  power  to  waken  sorrow,  fear,  or  rage  ; 
And  then,  the  bosom's  tumult,  to  assuage  ?  — 
Ye  deep  phrenologists,  say,  can  ye  tell 
Within  what  secret  caves  these  wonders  dwell  1 
What  covert  way,  what  faintly  shadow'd  line 
Leads  to  the  cell  of  Genius  ?  spark  divine  ! 
Genius  !  that  thing  inexplicably  strange, 
That  knows  no  measure  to  its  boundless  range ; 
That,  in  the  lowest  depth  or  giddiest  height, 
Still  marks  its  path  with  beams  of  radiant  light ; 
Whose  touch  can  free  ten  thousand  hidden  springs. 
And  waken  powers  unknown,  in  humblest  things ; 
Can  give  to  each  a  portion  of  its  fire ; 
And,  with  a  fiddle,  rapturous  joys  inspire. 


THE  ORGANIST. 


TO     MY    MUCH   ESTEEMED    AND    HIGHLY    GIFTED    FRIEND,    EDWARD 
HODGES,    DOCTOR   IN   MUSIC. 


THE  troubles  of  an  Organist  I  sing ; 
His  duties  and  his  pleasures  too. 
Nor  is  his  charge  a  light  and  trifling  thing, 
If  to  his  station  he  be  true. 

'Tis  oft  his  task,  a  high  and  holy  end, 
By  humblest  agents,  to  attain ; 
To  teach  th'  Almighty's  praises  to  ascend 
From  simpering  minstrels,  pert  and  vain. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

When  none  but  thoughts  religious,  gentle,  kind. 
Should  reign  within  the  sacred  choir, 
It  is  his  lot,  too  often,  there  to  find 
Low  bickerings,  envy,  mutual  ire. 

Such  jarring  instruments  must  he  combine; 
To  harmonize  such  discords,  strive ; 
Breathings  like  these  unite  with  themes  divine, 
To  keep  devotion's  fire  alive. 

When  to  each  voice  its  part  he  hath  assign'd, 
And  all  seems  right  and  order'd  well, 
Some  lurking  discontent  he  oft  will  find, 
Some  spirit  anxious  to  rebel. 

And  where  the  springs  of  mental  discord  lie 
'Mid  vocal  harmony  conceal 'd, 
A  touch  may  bid  the  choir  to  fragments  fly, 
Like  blow  on  glass  that's  unanneal'd. 

One  deems  it  to  her  dignity  a  slight 
In  rank  of  second  to  be  plac'd ; 


THE    ORGANIST.  161 

Another  claims  a  solo  as  his  right ; 
And  in  a  chorus  feels  disgrac'd. 

Oft  'tis  the  sense  of  interest  alone 
That  death  to  harmony  prevents ; 
And,  as  in  other  things,  here  too  is  shown 
The  might  of  dollars  and  of  cents. 

To  vex  him  too,  the  organ-bellows  squeak, 
Or  finest  notes  get  out  of  tune  ; 
Some  pipes  seem  sulky,  and  refuse  to  speak, 
While  some,  loquacious,  speak  too  soon. 

When  to  emotions  that  his  soul  expand 
He  would,  in  noble  strains,  give  vent, 
And  fills  with  richest  harmony  each  hand, 
'Tis  chance,  the  wind  is  nearly  spent, 

And  all  his  thoughts  sublime  to  fury  change 
At  him  who  should  the  bellows  ply ; 
While  th'  organ  utters  fading  notes  so  strange, 
They  seem  to  mock  him  as  they  die. 

13* 


162  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Such,  in  this  life,  our  lot !     What's  noble,  grand, 
What  bids  the  thoughts  to  Heav'n  ascend, 
May  on  the  working  of  a  menial  hand, 
Or  on  a  breath  of  air  depend. 

But  when  all's  done  that  human  pow'r  can  do 
To  make  his  duties  smooth  and  light, 
And  movements  noiseless  glide,  and  notes  are  true, 
Then  let  him  see  his  heart  be  right. 

For  not  on  purity  and  depth  of  tone, 
On  science  link'd  with  manual  skill 
And  fancy's  flights,  must  he  depend  alone 
His  sacred  duty  to  fulfil. 

The  gifts  of  Nature,  be  they  e'er  so  high, 
With  all  that  art  can  teach,  combin'd, 
Cannot  avail  the  artist  to  supply 
The  want  of  a  religious  mind. 

He  finds  it  not  a  victory  so  hard 
To  make  the  conquest  of  his  art, 


THE   ORGANIST. 

As  from  vain  worldly  thoughts  to  guard 
The  secret  movements  of  his  heart. 

Oh !  sacred  harmony; !  what  lawless  feet 
Within  thy  precincts  boldly  tread  ! 
What  vain  and  reckless  triflers  there  we  meet, 
Where  all  should  feel  a  holy  dread  ! 

Hence,  wanton  trills  and  sliding  semitones, 
Light-fmger'd  runs  and  turns  misplac'd, 
Bravuras,  from  the  stage,  and  love-sick  moans, 
With  which  God's  worship  is  disgrac'd. 

But  in  this  world  of  discord  and  of  strife, 
A  beam  from  Heav'n  may  reach  us  still, 
And  give  the  organist  both  heart  and  life 
His  arduous  duties  to  fulfil. 

For  when,  obedient  to  his  skilful  hand, 
In  full  accord  sweet  voices  rise, 
And  holy  zeal  inspires  the  sacred  band, 
He  mounts  in  spirit  to  the  skies. 


164  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Yes,  these  are  moments  of  excitement  high, 
Which  hours  of  misery  repay ; 
Which  call  big  tears  of  rapture  to  his  eye, 
And  snatch  him  from  this  world  away. 


THE  PIG-  AND  THE   ROOSTER,. 


THE    FOLLOWING    PIECE    OF    FCN    WAS    OCCASIONED    BY    A    SUBJECT    FOR   COM 
POSITION    GIVEN    TO    THE    BOYS    OF    A    GRAMMAR  SCHOOL    ATTENDED 
BY    ONE    OF  MY    SONS — Viz  :       "WHICH     ARE    TO  BE  PREFERRED, 
THE    PLEASURES     OF    A    PIG    OR    A    CHICKEN?" 


ON  a  warm  sunny  day,  in  the  midst  of  July, 
A  lazy  young  pig  lay  stretched  out  in  his  sty, 
Like  some  of  his  betters,  most  solemnly  thinking 
That   the  best  things  on  earth  are  good  eating  and 

drinking. 

At  length,  to  get  rid  of  the  gnats  and  the  flies, 
He  resolv'd,  from  his  sweet  meditations  to  rise ; 
And,  to  keep  his  skin  pleasant,  and  pliant,  and  cool, 
He  plung'd  him,  forthwith,  in  the  next  muddy  pool. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

When,  at  last,  he  thought  fit  to  arouse  from  his  bath, 

A  conceited  young  rooster  came  just  in  his  path  : 

A  precious  smart  prig,  full  in  vanity  drest, 

Who  thought,  of  all  creatures,  himself  far  the  best. 

"  Hey  day  !  little  grunter,  why  where  in  the  world 

Are  you  going  so  perfum'd,  pomatum'd,  and  curl'd  ? 

Such  delicate  odors  my  senses  assail, 

And  I  see  such  a  sly  looking  twist  in  your  tail, 

That  you,  sure,  are  intent  on  some  elegant  sporting ; 

Hurra  !  I  believe,  on  my  life,  you  are  courting ; 

And  that  figure  which  moves  with  such  exquisite  grace, 

Combin'd  with  the  charms  of  that  soft-smiling  face, 

In  one  who's  so  neat  and  adorn'd  with  such  art, 

Cannot  fail  to  secure  the  most  obdurate  heart. 

And  much  joy  do  I  wish  you,  both  you  and  your  wife, 

For  the  prospect  you  have  of  a  nice  pleasant  life." 

"  Well,  said,  master  Dunghill,"  cried  Pig  in  a  rage, 
"  You're,  doubtless,  the  prettiest  beau  of  the  age, 
With  those  sweet  modest  eyes  staring  out  of  your  head, 
And  those  lumps  of  raw  flesh,  all  so  bloody  and  red. 


THE   PIG   AND    THE    ROOSTER. 


167 


Mighty  graceful  you  look  with  those  beautiful  legs, 
Like  a  squash  or  a  pumpkin  on  two  wooden  pegs. 
And  you've  special  good  reason  your  own  life  to  vaunt, 
And  the  pleasures  of  others  with  insult  to  taunt ; 
Among  cackling  fools,  always  clucking  or  crowing, 
And  looking  up  this  way  and  that  way,  so  knowing, 
And  strutting  and  swelling,  or  stretching  a  wing, 
To  make  you  admired  by  each  silly  thing  ; 
And  so  full  of  your  own  precious  self,  all  the  time, 
That  you  think  common  courtesy  almost  a  crime ; 
As  if  all  the  world  was  on  the  look  out 
To  see  a  young  rooster  go  scratching  about." 

Hereupon,  a  debate,  like  a  whirlwind,  arose, 
Which  seem'd  fast  approaching  to  bitings  and  blows  ; 
'Mid  squeaking  and  grunting,  Pig's  arguments  flowing  ; 
And  Chick  venting  fury  'twixt  screaming  and  crowing. 
At  length,  to  decide  the  affair,  'twas  agreed 
That  to  counsellor  Owl  they  should  straightway  proceed ; 
While  each,  in  his  conscience,  no  motive  could  show, 
But  the  laudable  wish  to  exult  o'er  his  foe. 


168 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


Other  birds,  of  all  feather,  their  vigils  were  keeping, 
While  Owl,  in  his  nook,  was  most  learnedly  sleeping : 
For,  like  a  true  sage,  he  preferred  the  dark  night, 
When  engaged  in  his  work,  to  the  sun's  blessed  light. 
Each  stated  his  plea,  and  the  owl  was  required 
To  say  whose  condition  should  most  be  desired. 
It  seem'd  to  the  judge  a  strange  cause  to  be  put  on, 
To  tell  which  was  better,  a  fop  or  a  glutton ; 
Yet,  like  a  good  lawyer,  he  kept  a  calm  face, 
And  proceeded,  by  rule,  to  examine  the  case ; 
With  both  his  round  eyes  gave  a  deep-meaning  wink, 
And,  extending  one  ta\o,n,  he  set  him  to  think. 
In  fine,  with  a  face  much  inclined  for  a  joke, 
And  a  mock  solemn  accent,  the  counsellor  spoke  — 
"  'Twixt  Rooster  and  Roaster,  this  cause  to  decide, 
Would  afford  me,  my  friends,  much  professional  pride. 
Were  each  on  the  table  serv'd  up,  and  well  dress'd, 
I  could  easily  tell  which  I  fancied  the  best ; 
But  while  both  here  before  me,  so  lively  I  see, 
This  cause  is,  in  truth,,  too  important  for  me ; 
Without  trouble,  however,  among  human  kind, 
Many  dealers  in  questions  like  this  you  may  find, 


THE    PIG    AND    THE    ROOSTER. 


169 


Yet,  one  sober  truth,  ere  we  part,  I  would  teach  — 
That  the  life  you  each  lead  is  best  fitted  for  each. 
'Tis  the  joy  of  a  cockerel  to  strut  and  look  big, 
And,  to  wallow  in  mire,  is  the  bliss  of  a  pig. 
But,  whose  life  is  more  pleasant,  when  viewed  in  itself, 
Is  a  question  had  better  be  laid  on  the  shelf, 
Like  many  which  puzzle  deep  reasoners'  brains, 
And  reward  them  with  nothing  but  words  for  their  pains. 
So  now,  my  good  clients,  I  have  been  long  awake, 
And  I  pray  you,  in  peace,  your  departure  to  take. 
Let  each  one  enjoy,  with  content,  his  own  pleasure, 
Nor  attempt,  by  himself,  other  people  to  measure." 

Thus  ended  the  strife,  as  does  many  a  fight ; 

Each  thought  his  foe  wrong,  and  his  own  notions  right. 

Pig  turn'd,  with  a  grunt,  to  his  mire  anew, 

And  He-biddy,  laughing,  cried — cock-a-doodle-doo. 


14 


LINES  FOR  VALENTINE'S  DAY. 


TO    A    LADY    REMARKABLE     FOR    HER    VOCAL    POWERS. 


Now  when  the  breath  of  coming  Spring 
Steals  fitful  on  the  air ; 
When  faithful  swains  their  true-loves  sing, 
And  birds  begin  to  pair, 

In  sportive  mood,  I  thought  to  send 
A  mimic  valentine, 
To  teaze  awhile,  my  little  friend, 
That  merry  heart  of  thine. 


171 


I  thought,  with  well-invented  strain, 
The  semblance  to  assume 

Of  heart-struck  beau  or  pining  swain 
Fast  hast'ning  to  the  tomb. 

But  anxious  care  soon  chas'd  away 
The  frolic  from  my  mind. 

Yet  still,  though  mirth  refuse  to  stay, 
True  friendship's  left  behind. 

Then  take  kind  wishes  from  a  friend, 
In  place  of  laughing  mirth  ; 

Though  well  I  know  the  gifts  I  send 
Are  dullest  things  on  earth. 

And  yet,  that  sober  thing,  good  will, 
When  heartless  glee  is  past, 

With  peaceful  joy  the  soul  may  fill, 
Unchanging  to  the  last. 

Wearied  of  Folly's  gaudy  scene. 
How  pleas'd  the  languid  eye 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS*. 

Rests  on  the  meadow's  quiet  green, 
Or  seeks  the  azure  sky  ! 

Thus,  bubbles  mantling  in  the  glass, 
That  vanish  ere  they're  quaff'd, 

May  leave  behind  them,  when  they  pass, 
A  pure  and  tranquil  draught. 

Now,  young  life's  vista,  to  your  sight, 

Of  endless  length  appears  ; 
And  countless  visions  of  delight 

Dispel  obtrusive  fears. 

And  youth  and  health  around  you  bloom 
The  world's  all  bright  and  new  ; 

And  ev'ry  floweret  sheds  perfume ; 
And  ev'ry  heart  seems  true. 

May  favoring  Heaven  continue  still 

These  blessings  to  impart ; 
And  may  it  soon  the  hope  fulfil 

That's  next  each  fair-one's  heart  ! 


173 


And  why  should  not  each  gentle  breast 

Confess  the  general  law  ; 
3Tis  Nature  can  instruct  us  best 

Whence  truest  bliss  to  draw. 

While  woodland  songsters  plume  their  wings, 

With  mutual  love  elate, 
Why  should  the  sweetest  bird  that  sings 

Still  roam  without  a  mate  ? 


14* 


THE  WINE  DRINKER. 


I'LL  drink  my  glass  of  generous  wine  ; 
And  what  concern  is  it  of  thine 
Thou  self-erected  censor  pale, 
Forever  watching  to  assail 
Each  honest,  open-hearted  fellow 
Who  takes  his  liquor  ripe  and  mellow, 
And  feels  delight,  in  moderate  measure, 
With  chosen  friends  to  share  his  pleasure  ? 


THE    WINE    DRINKER. 

Without  the  aid  of  pledge  or  vow, 

I  hold  me  temperate  quite  as  thou ; 

But  that  which  virtue's  course  I  deem 

Keeps  clear  from  ev'ry  rash  extreme. 

If  ev'ry  good  must  be  refus'd 

That  may  by  mortals  be  abus'd, 

E'en  abstinence  may  be  excess, 

And  prove  a  curse,    when  meant  to  bless. 

If  by  the  notions  of  the  throng 
I  must  be  taught  what's  right  and  wrong, 
In  pity's  name,  my  sober  friend, 
Say  where  would  be  my  lesson's  end  ? 
Each  gives  me  his  peculiar  view 
Of  what  he  holds  as  false  or  true. 
Whate'er  I  drink,  whate'er  I  eat, 
Will  some  objector's  censure  meet. 
Whate'er  I  wont,  whate'er  I  will, 
Meets  with  fierce  opposition  still. 
Coffee  and  tea  affect  the  nerves  ; 
Who  swallows  wine,  the  devil  serves  ; 


175 


176  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

And  he  that  dares  a  stronger  drink 
Must  soon  to  deep  perdition  sink. 
Another  sneeringly  maintains 
That  water  animalculse  contains  ; 
And,  that  to  be  from  harm  secure, 
We  ne'er  should  drink  it  fresh  and  pure, 
But  boil  it  till  from  life  'tis  free, 
Then  swallow  it  in  punch  or  tea. 
One  thinks  it  rational  and  right 
To  take  as  guide  your  appetite. 
Another  at  all  food's  provok'd 
Save  flinty  crusts  in  water  soak'd. 
And  would  I  from  opinion  draw 
My  moral  or  religious  law, 
And,  to  suit  all,  a  code  complete, 
All  contradictions  there  must  meet. 

Woe  to  the  man  whose  feeble  mind 
No  rooted  principle  can  find ; 
But,  by  the  fashion  of  the  day, 
From  sober  sense  is  led  away  ; 


THE    WINE    DRINKER. 

Afraid  to  follow  Nature's  laws, 
Lest  he  oppose  the  temperance  cause; 
Quits  common  use  and  common  sense, 
Lest  some  weak  brother  take  offence  ; 
Yet  pines  in  secret  that  he's  bound 
To  pass  the  cup  untasted  round 
Amid  his  friends  who,  conscience  free, 
Indulge  in  harmless  social  glee  ; 
And  oft  will  seek,  nor  seek  in  vain, 
Some  subterfuge  to  break  his  chain  ; 
Find  out  disorders  that  require 
What's  prompted  only  by  desire  ; 
Will  ask  some  doctor  to  prescribe ; 
And  turn  his  vow  to  jest  and  gibe. 
And  'tis,  I  fear,  too  true,  alas ! 
That  oft  th'  intoxicating  glass, 
In  secret  swallow'd,  and  by  stealth, 
Degrades  the  mind  and  mars  the  health. 
Nor  is  it  hid  from  any  eye, 
That  they  who  alcohol  decry, 
Virginia's  weed  will  chew  or  smoke, 
Or  opium's  treach'rous  aid  invoke, 


177 


MISCELLANEOUS     POEMS. 

And  raise  for  abstinence  a  clatter 

'Mid  clouds  of  smoke,  and  spit  and  spatter. 

Nor  urge  th'  example  we  should  show 
To  those  of  an  estate  more  low. 
His  life  the  best  example  gives 
Who  after  Nature's  dictates  lives ; 
Which,  rightly  view'd,  are  laws  of  God, 
And  point  to  paths  with  safety  trod. 

As  well  might  you  restrain  the  breeze 
That  sweeps  the  main  and  bends  the  trees, 
Or  bid  the  sun  no  mists  excite, 
That  cloud  the  sky  and  dim  his  light, 
As  strive  to  make  mankind  agree 
To  lead  their  lives  from  turmoil  free. 
No  lot  so  low,  no  mind  so  meek 
That  will  not  for  excitement  seek. 
Nature  in  bounds  unnatural  pent 
Will  find  some  new  and  dangerous  vent. 
Awhile,  the  blood  you  may  restrain ; 
But,  held  too  tight,  'twill  burst  the  vein. 


THE    WINE    DRINKER. 

If  there  be  found  no  other  sport, 

To  feuds  and  strife  will  men  resort ; 

And,  mid  war's  spirit-stirring  notes, 

Amuse  themselves  with  cutting  throats. 

E'en  they  who  blame  the  social  cup 

Seek  means  to  stir  the  spirits  up  ; 

And  various  stimulants  they  find 

Wherewith  to  intoxicate  the  mind. 

Hence  all  the  temperance  bustle  comes 

Of  marshal'd  files,  with  trumps  and  drums  ; 

Banners  bright,  processions  long, 

Bands  of  music,  speeches,  song. 

Temperance  meetings,  temperance  halls, 

Temperance  concerts,  temperance  balls ; 

All  that  keen  politicians  know 

Can  blind  you  with  a  specious  show, 

By  which  your  temperance  cause  promoters 

Hope  for  a  sturdy  band  of  voters. 

These  follies  soon  may  pass  away, 

And  prove  but  fashions  of  a  day, 

But  there's  one  pageant  meets  my  eyes, 

At  which  indignant  feelings  rise  : 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Children  I  see  paraded  round, 

In  badges  deck'd,  with  ribbons  bound, 

And  banners  floating  o'er  their  head, 

Like  victims  to  the  slaughter  led. 

Ye  self-made  legislators,  how 

Presume  ye  to  exact  a  vow 

Or  ask  a  pledge,  for  aye  to  bind 

Childhood's  unthinking,  embryo  mind? 

How  can  ye  dare  to  fill  a  child, 

Whose  spirits  should  be  free  and  wild, 

And  only  love  to  run  and  romp, 

With  vanity  and  pride  and  pomp  ? 

How  can  ye  answer  for  the  woe 

Which  many  a  man,  by  you,  shall  know, 

Who  dares  the  promise  to  renounce 

You  bade  him,  when  a  child,  pronounce, 

Yet  still  within  his  bosom  keeps 

A  gnawing  worm  that  never  sleeps  ? 

Come  then,  your  glasses  fill,  my  boys. 
Few  and  inconstant  are  the  joys 


THE   WINE    DRINKER.  181 

That  come  to  cheer  this  world  below ; 
But  nowhere  do  they  brighter  flow 
Than  where  kind  friends  convivial  meet, 
3Mid  harmless  glee  and  converse  sweet. 

There's  truth  in  wine,  'tis  truly  said. 
Ye  then  who  feel  a  secret  dread 
Your  thoughts  and  feelings  to  declare, 
The  influence  of  wine  beware  : 
In  strong  relief  and  colors  true 
It  brings  both  good  and  ill  to  view. 
Take  salts,  and  seidlitz,  and  blue  pills ; 
Purge  out  your  bile,  that  source  of  ills ; 
And,  till  you  have  a  purer  soul, 
Touch  not  the  truth-betraying  bowl. 

But  you  who  feel  all  right  within  ; 
No  secret  malice,  lurking  sin  ; 
No  passion  dangerous  to  awake  ; 
Refuse  not  sometimes  to  partake 
The  moderate  glass,  which  doth  impart 
New  warmth  and  feeling  to  the  heart ; 

15 


182  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Commands  more  generous  thoughts  to  rise, 

And  adds  more  strength  to  friendship's  ties 

Gives  witty  thoughts  an  edge  more  keen, 

And  bids  retiring  worth  be  seen ; 

Gives  to  the  soul  of  modest  youth 

A  bolder  voice  in  cause  of  truth ; 

By  Prudence  measur'd,  serves  t'assuage 

The  dreary  cold  of  wintry  age  ; 

Impels  the  blood,  with  bolder  rush, 

To  lighten  up  th'  indignant  blush 

That  throws  its  flashes  o'er  the  ice 

Of  selfish,  calculating  vice  ; 

And,  in  the  mind  that's  pure  and  wise, 

Bids  glowing  thoughts  and  visions  rise, 

That,  beaming  with  unsullied  light, 

Shun  neither  Reason's  nor  Religion's  sight. 

If  such  thy  virtues,  generous  wine  ! 
Thy  pleasures  will  I  ne'er  resign 
While  health  remains,  nor  e'er  refuse, 
In  praise  of  thee,  t'  invoke  the  Muse. 


THE  WATER  DUINKEH. 


AWAY  with  all  your  wine-fill'd  casks  ! 
To  atoms  shatter  all  your  flasks ; 
And  waste  the  liquor,  old  and  new, 
Extoll'd  by  Bacchus'  wanton  crew, 
'Mid  revelry  and  empty  laugh, 
With  senses  maddening,  as  they  quaff 
The  potion  that  destroys 
All  taste  of  real  joys, 


184  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

And  brings  to  earth  the  soaring  mind, 
And  leaves  it  dismal,  drench'd  and  blind. 

To  me  you  hold  the  glass  in  vain 

Of  foaming,  dancing,  bright  champaigne. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  generous  wine 

That  grows  along  the  banks  of  Rhine  ; 

Nor  boast  your  well-assorted  stock 

Of  choice  Madeira,  Port,  and  Hock, 

Of  Sherry,  Burgundy  and  Claret, 

Close  stow'd  in  cellar  and  in  garret ! 

Though  drunkards  may  their  worth  extol, 

They're  but  the  brood  of  Alcohol, 

That  dsemon  sent,  in  Heaven's  ire, 

Breathing  out  infernal  fire, 

And  raging  with  intense  desire 

The  host  of  damned  souls  to  swell, 

And  rouse  new  uproar  in  the  depths  of  hell. 

Water  is  the  best  of  things !  * 
So  sang  a  famous  bard  of  old  — 


API2TON    JLSV  ti<5w. — PlNDAR. 


THE    WATER    DRINKER.  185 

Then  lead  me  to  pure  gushing  springs, 
Or  pebbly  runnels  clear  and  cold, 
Or  margin  of  transparent  lake, 
Or  streamlet  from  the  crystal  pool. 
My  burning  thirst  there  let  me  slake  ; 
My  parched  lips  there  let  me  cool. 

Would  you  untainted  pleasures  know, 

Seek  where  the  mountain  waters  flow ; 

And  near  them  dwell,  and  from  them  dip 

The  only  drink  that  wets  your  lip, 

Save  milk  fresh  drawn  from  lowing  herds, 

Or  wholesome  whey  of  milk-white  curds. 

So  shall  the  current  in  each  vein 

Flow  gently,  and  no  gouty  pain 

E'er  rack  your  joints  or  cloud  your  brain ; 

No  morbid  cravings  vex  your  soul 

To  quaff  th'  intoxicating  bowl  ; 

No  pois'nous  fumes  your  breath  inflame ; 

No  tremors  agitate  your  frame  ; 

No  goblin  visions  of  the  night 

E'er  haunt  your  slumbers  pure  and  light 

15* 


186 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

That  softly  leave  your  opening  eyes, 
Like  dews  that  in  the  sunbeam  rise, 
And  yield  refreshment  to  the  mind, 
Nor  leave,  when  gone,  a  stain  behind ; 
No  vertigos  your  brain  perplex ; 
No  bursts  of  rage  your  bosom  vex ; 
No  burning  stimulants  excite 
A  false  and  morbid  appetite, 
Forever  raging  after  food 
That  genders  in  the  frame  a  brood 
Of  ills  that  scourge  us  like  a  pest, 
At  gorging  surfeit's   dire  behest, 
From  which  no  healing  power  can  save 
The  victims  hast'ning  to  an  early  grave. 
Nor  ever  tempted  to  obey 
Unruly  passion's  lawless  sway, 
The  influence  of  Virtue's  balm 
Shall  give  your  soul  a  sacred  calm ; 
While  bracing  breath  of  mountain  air 
Shall  nerve  your  frame,  fatigue  to  bear, 
And  free  your  mind  from  boding  care. 


THE    WATER    DRINKER. 

Your  stream  of  life  shall  even  glide, 

Not  with  an  ebbing,  flowing  tide ; 

But  to  its  final  outlet  go 

With  quiet  unperceived  flow. 

To  this  pure  element  I'll  raise, 

While  breath  endures,  my  notes  of  praise. 

Whether,  to  fertilize  the  plains, 

It  soft  descend  in  gentle  rains, 

Or  rush  forth  gaily  from  the  hills, 

In  torrents  loud  and  gurgling  rills, 

Or  flow  'mid  sands  of  purest  white, 

Or  shine  o'er  pebbles  clean  and  bright, 

Or  through  the  verdant  meadow  creep, 

Or  swift  from  rock  to  rock  it  leap ; 

Howe'er  disguis'd  by  Nature's  power, 

In  chrystal  ice  or  snowy  shower ; 

Whether  to  open  sight  reveal 'd, 

Or  in  the  ambient  air  conceal'd  ; 

In  misty  vapor  if  it  rest 

Upon  some  lofty  mountain's  breast, 

In  clouds  bedeck  the  welkin  blue, 

Or,  heav'n-distill'd,  descend  in  dew  ; 


187 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

In  earth  or  sky,  wherever  found, 
The  praise  of  water  I'll  resound. 

Of  all  the  pure  perennial  springs 
With  which  our  native  land  is  blest, 
My  mem'ry  loves  the  Muse  that  sings 
Of  one  fair  fount  above  the  rest. 
He  that  would  purer  nectar  drink 
Than  Hebe  e'er  pour'd  out  to  Jove, 
Must  haste  to  Lehi's  verdant  brink, 
And  there,  in  sultry  season,  rove. 
'Mid  shades  he  shall  a  rock  perceive 
With  bosom  hollow'd  to  receive 
A  secret  spring ;  yet  to  the  eye, 
At  first,  'twill  seem  all  void  and  dry, 
And  not,  until  he  draw  more  near, 
Shall  he  observe  a  pool  so  clear, 
So  cool,  so  colorless  and  pure, 
That  even  Bacchus  'twould  allure 
To  leave  his  wine  and  favorite  lass, 
And  cool  his  palate  with  a  glass. 


THE    WATER    DRINKER.  189 


E'en  Jove  himself  would  give  the  nod, 
And  brand  it  liquor  for  a  god. 
Ye  Nymphs  and  Naiads  who  preside 
O'er  chrystal  founts  and  streams  that  glide 
Throughout  our  land,  dispensing  wealth, 
Imparting  beauty,  life  and  health, 
Fain  would  I,  in  my  verse  prolong 
The  honors  that  to  you  belong  ; 
But  I  am  caution'd  by  the  Muse 
One  favorite  from  the  rest  to  choose, 
To  whom  our  native  city  owes 
The  warmest  eulogy  that  flows 
From  orator's  or  poet's  lips  ; 
'Tis  she  who  gay  and  sportive  trips 
O'er  Croton's  rude  and  rocky  banks,* 
With  lighter  foot  and  wilder  pranks 
Than  woodland  deer  or  mountain  fawn 
Upspringing  at  the  break  of  dawn. 
Crotona  !  be  thy  honor'd  name 
The  theme  of  never-dying  fame  ! 


*  The  movements  of  this  river  are  such,  that  the  country  people  call  it 
Crazy  Croton. 


190 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

And  be  thou  Naiad,  Nymph,  or  Sprite, 
Thy  praise  shall  be  my  chief  delight. 
The  Muse  once  saw  her,  in  a  frolic  hour, 
Disporting  in  a  summer  shower  ; 
From  rock  to  rock,  from  ledge  to  ledge, 
Bounding  along  her  river's  edge, 
Laughing  like  a  heedless  child, 
With  looks  as  innocent  and  wild  ; 
And  naught  thrown  o'er  her  graceful  form 
To  shield  it  from  the  raging  storm, 
Save  her  own  locks  in  many  a  fold, 
That,  dripping,  look'd  like  molten  gold. 
With  laugh  suppress'd  and  half-clos'd  eyes, 
She  now  would  to  the  dropping  skies 
Her  face  upturn  and  catch  the  rain 
That  rudely  pelted  her  in  vain  ; 
Of  storm,  nor  wet  was  she  afraid ; 
For  in  her  element  she  play'd. 
With  uprais'd  arm  and  drooping  hand, 
She,  ever  and  anon,  would  stand, 
And  watch  the  pearly  drops  descend 
From  ev*ry  taper  finger's  end  ; 


THE    WATER    DRINKER. 

Or  smile  to  see  the  hail  rebound 
Light  from  her  shoulder  to  the  ground. 
And  when  the  sun,  with  fervid  ray, 
Had  chas'd  the  wat'ry  clouds  away, 
She  gaily  spread  her  golden  hair, 
And  wav'd  it  in  the  drying  air ; 
Then  o'er  her  temples  graceful  wound, 
With  many  a  ringlet  flowing  round. 
And  when  the  Muse  she  chanc'd  to  spy 
Beholding  her  with  laughing  eye, 
With  rapid  foot  she  touch'd  the  wave, 
And,  at  the  signal  which  she  gave, 
A  wreathed  mist  the  stream  upsent, 
With  shining  dew-drops  all  besprent, 
That,  like  soft  down  with  mingled  pearls, 
Enwrap'd  her  limbs  and  flowing  curls. 
And  dancing  spray,  around  her  head, 
Such  brilliant  rainbow  colors  shed, 
That  while  in  fitful  mood  they  gleam'd, 
A  Urd  of  paradise  she  seem'd. 
In  conscious  beauty's  happiest  mood, 
A  moment,  she  exulting  stood  ; 


191 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Then  to  the  Muse  she  wav'd  adieu, 

And  in  her  grotto  vanish'd  from  the  view. 

Pure  water  !  thus  if  thou  dost  flow 
With  blessings  to  this  world  of  woe  ; 
If  such  the  powers  that  round  thee  throng, 
Be  thou  my  only  drink,  my  only  song ! 


LINES 


SENT  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY,  WITH  A  PAIR  OF  GLOVES. 


Go  envied  glove,  with  anxious  care, 
From  scorching  suns  and  withering  air, 

Belinda's  hand  to  guard. 
And  let  no  folds  offend  the  sight ; 
Nor  let  thy  seams,  perversely  tight, 

With  hasty  rents  be  marr'd. 

Nor  fear  the  fate  that  oft  attends 
On  truest  faith  and  long-tried  friends  — 
With  shame  to  be  displac'd. 

16 


194  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

You'll  ne'er  be  own'd  by  menial  hag  ; 
Nor  e'er  in  form  of  button-bag 
Or  thumb-stall  be  disgrac'd. 

Ere  envious  time  shall  bid  thee  rue 
The  loss  of  this  thy  spotless  hue 

That  now  excels  the  snow, 
Some  swain,  who  for  Belinda  sighs, 
Shall  bear  thee  off,  a  richer  prize 

Than  monarchs  could  bestow. 

By  him,  in  triumph,  thou'lt  be  borne, 
And  in  his  faithful  bosom  worn, 

No !  never  thence  to  part. 
What  earthly  lot  can  thine  excel  ? 
First  on  Belinda's  hand  to  dwell, 

Then,  near  a  constant  heart. 


FAREWELL. 


IN  ANSWER  TO  A  YOUNG   LADY'S  INVITATION  TO  MAKE  ONE   OF  A  PARTY  OP 
PLEASURE   ON  AN  EXCURSION  INTO  THE   COUNTRY. 


MY  ear  still  vibrates  with  thy  sweet  command ; 
Still,  tremulous,  I  hold  thy  parting  hand ; 
1  see  thy  smile  still  witching  me  away  ; 
Yet  must  this  willing  heart  still  disobey. 
Yes,  lovely  tempter,  yes,  I  must  forego 
A.  transient  bliss  that  leaves  a  lasting  woe. 
In  shades  I  dwell  where  each  severer  Muse, 
And  thought,  and  silence,  spread  their  pallid  hues. 


196 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


But  when  I  bask  beneath  the  melting  rays 
Of  joyous  rosy  light  that  round  thee  plays, 
At  thought  of  these  my  solitary  shades, 
A  chilling  horror  all  my  frame  pervades. 
The  Graces  that  around  thee  lightly  trip, 
The  Joys  that  laugh  upon  thy  ruby  lip, 
The  flutt'ring  Loves  that,  watchful  to  beguile, 
Direct  thy  glance  and  lurk  beneath  thy  smile, 
They  mar  my  soul  for  contemplation's  powers, 
For  learning's  rugged  paths  and  weary  hours, 
For  deep  research  that  strains  the  mental  eye, 
And  daring  thoughts  that  soar  beyond  the  sky. 

Glide  on,  sweet  maid,  in  pleasure's  gilded  barque, 
Still  blithe  and  tuneful  as  the  morning  lark ; 
Still  let  the  melting  music  of  thy  tongue 
Delight  the  old  and  captivate  the  young ; 
Still,  laughing,  lead  along  the  sportive  train 
Whose  breasts  can  feel  no  deep-devouring  pain 
But  Oh !  if  e'er  thou  mark  some  gentle  youth, 
In  whose  fond  breast  dwell  loyalty  and  truth, 


FAREWELL. 

Let  not  a  conquest's  momentary  bliss 

Tempt  thee  to  trifle  with  a  heart  like  this. 

The  breast  which  generous  love  and  honor  swell 

Is  sacred  as  the  fane  where  Angels  dwell : 

The  sacrilege  that  tempts  its  holy  fire 

Fails  not  to  rouse  a  guardian  Spirit's  ire. 

Go  now,  and  may  thy  heaven-attemper'd  mind, 
Ere  long,  some  pure  congenial  spirit  find  ; 
Some  swift  etherial  soul,  that  shall  delight 
To  chase  and  take  thee  in  thy  wildest  flight. 
Nor  let  thy  flights  and  frolics  chase  away 
All  thought  of  him  who  pours  this  parting  lay  ; 
Whose  bosom,  mingled  pains  and  tumults  swell 
While  thus  he  bids  farewell  —  a  sad  farewell ! 


16* 


LINES 


OCCASIONED    BY     THE     FOLLOWING    NOTICE,    COPIED    INTO     THE     NEW    YORK 

AMERICAN,    FROM   A   BALTIMORE    PAPER,   DURING   THE     PREVALENCE 

OF   THE    CHOLERA  IN   NEW  YORK,    IN   THE  SUMMER   OF   1832. 

"Died  on  Thursday  last,  at  Hospital  No.  3,  Sister  Mary  Frances,  one  of 
those  Angels  in  human  form,  who  are  found,  not  in  the  abode  of  luxury,  but  in 
all  our  hospitals,  supplying  the  wants  of,  and  ministering  comfort  and  conso 
lation  to,  the  sick  and  the  dying,  regardless  of  personal  danger,  and  rejecting 
all  temporal  compensation. 

"  The  deceased  was  found  in  the  morning  attending  as  usual  to  the  patients 
in  the  hospital,  with  the  smile  of  peace  and  serenity  on  her  countenance,  she 
sickened  about  8  o'clock,  and  by  7  in  the  evening  was  a  corpse." 

SHE    WAS    ONE    OF    THE    SISTERS    OF    CHARITY. 


YE  sacred  Sisters  ;  not  for  you,  this  strain  : 
You  heed  no  minstrelsy  of  earth-strung  lyre ; 
The  softest  siren  notes  would  sound  in  vain 
To  ears  impatient  for  the  heavenly  choir. 


THE    SISTERS    OF   CHARITY. 

But  who  that  toils  through  life's  rough  devious  way, 
If  some  fair  prospect  open  on  his  sight, 
Seeks  not  his  fellow  wanderer's  steps  to  stay, 
And  make  them  partners  in  his  own  delight  ? 

Turn  then,  all  ye  who,  with  indignant  mind, 
Behold  the  vileness  of  this  mortal  state  ; 
Where  craft  and  guile  on  ev'ry  hand  you  find, 
With  all  the  forms  of  selfishness  and  hate ; 

Here  let  your  misanthropic  brow  unbend, 
And  warmest  feelings  of  the  heart  expand  ; 
For,  if  to  earth  some  gleams  of  Heaven  descend, 
They  sure  must  light  upon  this  sacred  band. 

And  ye  who  sport  beneath  the  golden  beams 
That  o'er  youth's  jocund  morning  shed  their  light ; 
To  whom  the  downward  path  of  life  still  seems 
Immeasurably  distant  from  the  sight ; 

Oh !  think  me  not  a  censor  cold  and  stern, 
A  frowning  foe  to  all  that's  bright  and  gay, 


200 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


If,  for  a  moment,  I  would  have  you  turn, 
And  see  these  Sisters  tread  their  holy  way. 

I  would  not  bid  fierce  superstition's  power 
Bear  down  your  minds,  in  sullen  gloom  to  grope  : 
I  would  not  overcloud  one  radiant  hour, 
Nor  crush  one  rising  bud  of  youthful  hope  : 

But  stay  awhile,  nor  all  your  moments  waste 
For  joys  inconstant  as  the  vernal  sky. 
You  here  may  deep,  though  silent  pleasure  taste, 
Whose  impress  on  the  soul  shall  never  die. 

For  how  can  earth  present  a  goodlier  scene,- 
Or  what  can  waken  rapture  more  refin'd, 
Than  dauntless  courage,  silent  and  serene, 
With  maiden  gentleness  and  love  combin'd  ? 

Behold,  in  yon  receptacle  of  wo, 
Where  victims  of  disease  assembled  lie, 
That  gliding  form,  with  noiseless  footstep  go, 
From  couch  to  couch,  her  angel  task  to  ply. 


THE   SISTERS   OF   CHARITY. 


201 


She  dwells  'mid  sounds  and  sights  of  pain  and  death ; 
The  feeble  plaint,  the  involuntary  cry, 
The  fierce  convulsive  throw,  the  fainting  breath, 
The  heaving  groan,  the  deep-drawn  burning  sigh. 

Oh !  child  of  frolic,  in  whose  giddy  brain 
Delusive  Fancy's  ever  on  the  wing, 
Think  you  this  holy  maid  knows  naught  but  pain  ? 
That  in  her  path  no  lovely  flowrets  spring  ? 

Gay  visions  round  your  pillow  nightly  throng; 
The  morning  ramble  and  the  evening  dance, 
The  rout,  the  feast,  the  soul-entrancing  song, 
The  flatterer's  whisper,  and  the  lover's  glance. 

Around  her  couch,  no  brilliant  phantoms  play ; 
No  airy  spectre  of  past  pleasure  flies  : 
But  deeds  of  mercy  which  have  mark'd  the  day 
Give  tranquil  slumber  to  her  tear-stain'd  eyes. 

They're  precious  gems,  those  tears  that  wet  her  cheek ; 
Worth  more  than  all  the  treasures  earth  can  show. 


202 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


The  noblest  language  of  the  heart  they  speak ; 
From  high  and  holy  ecstacy  they  flow. 

Her  feelings  ye  alone  can  understand 

Whose  deeds   have    wak'd    the    sufferer's  grateful 

prayer ; 

Who've  felt  the  pressure  of  the  dying  hand ; 
Sweet  recompense  of  all  your  pious  care. 

No  sad  nor  strange  reverse  her  pleasures  dread  ; 
Of  time  and  chance,  they  mock  the  strong  control. 
Her  Heaven-aspiring  virtues  ever  shed 
A  cloudless  light  upon  her  peaceful  soul. 

The  baubles  that  command  this  world's  esteem 
No  resting  place  within  her  mind  can  gain : 
Like  idle  motes  that  cross  the  solar  beam 
They  serve  to  make  her  spirit's  source  more  plain. 

Yes  !  such  this  sacred  band  ;  such  peace  is  theirs  ; 
Unchang'd  when  days  shine  bright  or  tempests  lower. 


THE   SISTERS   OF   CHARITY.  203 


Through  life  they  pass,  untainted  by  its  cares  ; 
When  death  draws  near,  they  gladly  hail  his  power. 

And  then,  like  birds  that  seek  a  better  clime, 

On  swift  untiring  wing  their  spirits  rise, 

And  gladly  leave  this  turbid  stream  of  time, 

To  take  their  homeward  progress  through  the  skies. 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER, 


ON  HER  MARRIAGE  — 1836. 


FOR  you,  my  Margaret  dear,  I  have  no  art 
To  sing  a  jocund  hymeneal  strain  : 
What  rises  strong  and  deep  within  the  heart 
Must  ever  have  some  touch,  at  least,  of  pain. 

Nor  know  I  that  the  bird  of  merriest  lay 
Gives  happiest  omen  in  the  bridal  hour  ; 
That  gaudy  flowers,  with  brilliant  tints  and  gay, 
May  best  adorn  the  sacred  nuptial  bower. 


TO    MY   DAUGHTER. 

But  think  me  not  of  mind  morose  and  sad, 
Where  naught  but  sullen  censure  finds  abode, 
If,  in  the  midst  of  voices  blithe  and  glad, 
I  greet  you  with  a  song  of  graver  mode. 

The  glow  on  pleasure's  cheek,  it  is  not  this 
That  always  tells  where  heartfelt  joys  appear ; 
The  hidden  wellsprings  of  our  purest  bliss 
Are  oft  betoken'd  by  the  gushing  tear. 

I  am  not  like  the  parent  bird  that  tries 
To  lure  its  young-one  from  the  fostering  home ; 
That  gladly  sees  its  new-fledg'd  offspring  rise 
On  outspread  wing,  in  distant  shades  to  roam  : 

Yet  I  were  form'd  in  Nature's  sternest  mood, 

Did  not  my  inmost  soul  with  you  rejoice, 

To  see  your  lot  amid  the  wise  and  good, 

The  gentlest  friends,  the  husband  of  your  choice. 

Mysterious  bond,  that  kindred  souls  unites! 
Great  law  of  nature  hallowed  from  above ! 

17 


206  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Bless'd  remnant  oflost  Eden's  pure  delights! 
The  sum  of  all  our  bliss  —  connubial  love  ! 

Oh,  holy  flame !  seraphic  influence  mild  ! 

Sweet  incense,  kindled  by  celestial  ray ! 

For  ever  warm  the  bosom  of  my  child, 

And  gently  sooth  her  through  life's  rugged  way ! 

And  you,  my  child,  while  yet  your  life  is  strong, 
While  in  the  calm  of  peace  your  thoughts  repose, 
Prepare  for  ills  that  to  our  state  belong, 
And  arm  you  to  contend  with  numerous  foes. 

For  many  ills  unseen  beset  us  round, 
And  many  foes  within  ourselves  we  raise. 
What  sudden  checks  in  smoothest  paths  are  found ! 
How  few  and  fleeting  are  our  golden  days ! 

At  Hymen's  altar  when  we  plight  our  truth, 
For  letter  and  for  worse,  we  thoughtless  say ; 
We  dream  of  only  good ;  the  heart  of  youth 
Drives  ev'ry  fear  of  distant  ills  away. 


TO    MY    DAUGHTER. 

Till  death  do  part,  how  gaily  we  repeat 

When  joy  and  health  are  in  their  prime  and  strength 

Life  is  a  vista  then  whose  borders  meet ; 

So  endless,  to  our  fancy,  seems  its  length. 

But  oh  !  how  soon  we  pass  this  endless  track, 
That,  like  perspective  art,  deludes  our  view : 
And,  when  we  turn  and  on  our  path  look  back, 
How  short  the  distance  !  and  our  steps  how  few  ! 

Trust  not  the  gilded  mists  and  clouds  that  rise 
Where  flattering  Hope  and  fickle  Fancy  reign  ; 
But  turn  from  these,  and  seek  with  anxious  eyes 
The  clear  bright  atmosphere  of  Truth's  domain. 

Ascend,  full  oft,  her  highest  vantage  ground, 
And  look  beyond  the  circuit  of  this  earth. 
Review  the  things  its  narrow  limits  bound ; 
And,  with  her  guidance,  learn  to  scan  their  worth. 

Nor  think  that  with  relentless  stern  regard 
She  frowns  on  all  our  fleeting  pleasures  here. 


208 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Believe  me,  no  true  joys  by  her  are  marr'd, 
But,  in  her  light,  more  lovely  they  appear. 

And  now,  while  youth  and  health  are  in  their  bloom, 
Why  should  you  dread  to  look  beyond  this  state  ? 
The  traveller's  pleasure  knows  no  boding  gloom 
Because  the  charms  of  home  his  steps  await. 

Thus,  like  the  compass,  shall  your  tranquil  soul, 
With  one  wish'd  haven  steady  in  its  view, 
Though  tempests  rage  and  threat'ning  billows  roll, 
Rest  even-pois'd,  and  point  for  ever  true. 


LINES 


TO    THE    MEMORY    OF    MISS    SUSAN    MOORE,*    WRITTEN    BY    MY    LATE    WIFE. 


FORGIVE  the  humble  Muse  that  strives  to  raise 
To  thee,  bless'd  saint,  her  feeble  voice  of  praise ; 
That  dares  attempt  thy  worth  to  sing, 

Who  now,  with  sister  Cherubims 
And  Angels,  to  the  Almighty  King 

Dost  ceaseless  chant  forth  heavenly  hymns. 


*  Susan  Moore,  daughter  of  the  late  Dr.  William  Moore,  died  in  1814. 
She  was  a  most  lovely  young  creature;  the  delight  of  all  who  knew  her. 
She  suffered  so  much  pain  during  her  last  illness,  that,  shortly  beforo  her 
death,  she  uttered  the  exclamation  with  which  these  lines  conclude. 

17* 


210 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


Oh  !  that  my  strains  were  as  my  subject  high  ! 
Then  would  they  equal  those  which  swelPd  the  sky 
When  joyful  angels  quiring  bore 

Thy  spirit  to  the  realms  of  light, 
Glad  that  the  mournful  hour  was  o'er 
While  yet  it  struggled  for  its  flight. 

For,  as  thy  friends  the  bed  of  death  stood  nigh, 
Attending  seraphs  heav'd  the  pitying  sigh, 
To  think  what  tears,  what  griefs,  must  flow 

From  loss  of  such  sweet  innocence, 
To  think  what  pangs  their  breasts  must  know 
Who  mourn'd  such  matchless  excellence. 

For  thou  wast  pure  as  is  the  transient  snow 
That  falls  as  if  its  whiteness  but  to  show  ; 
And  fearful  lest  a  longer  stay 

Its  virgin  purity  should  stain, 
Dissolves  beneath  the  fervid  ray 
That  draws  it  up  to  Heaven  again. 

And  yet,  that  last,  that  melancholy  hour 
Rais'd  thee  from  earth  to  life,  immortal  flower ! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

Oh  !  how  does  even  grief  rejoice, 
The  tear  dry  in  affliction's  eye, 

When  memory  gives  thy  parting  voice 
Exclaiming,  "  Oh  !  how  sweet  to  die  !  " 


211 


TO  SOUTHEY. 


THESE  LINES  WERE  WRITTEN  AFTER  READING  THE  DEDICATION  OF  SOUTHEY's 
"TALE  OF  PARAGUAY,"  THOUGH  NEVER  SENT  TO  HIM.     THEY  CON 
TAIN   NOTHING   FICTITIOUS.  —  1832. 


SOUTHEY,  I  love  the  magic  of  thy  lyre, 

That  calms,  at  will,  or  sets  the  soul  on  fire  ; 

Whose  changeful  notes  through  ev'ry  mode  can  stray, 

From  deep-toned  horror  to  the  sprighliest  lay. 

In  Fancy's  wilds  with  you  I  love  to  roam, 

Where  all  things  strange  and  monstrous  make  their  home. 

And  when  from  wild  imagination's  dreams 

You  wake  to  holy  or  heroic  themes, 

My  spirit  owns  the  impulse  of  your  strains ; 

My  circling  blood  flows  freer  through  my  veins. 


TO    SOUTHEY. 


213 


Yet  not  amid  these  wonders  of  your  art 

I  find  the  trembling  key-note  of  my  heart. 

'Tis  not  the  depth  and  strength  of  tone  that  bring 

Responsive  murmurs  from  a  neighboring  string. 

Soft  sympathetic  sounds  and  tremors  rise 

Only  from  chords  attun'd  to  harmonize. 

'Tis  when  you  pour  the  simple  plaintive  strain 

That  tells  a  fond  bereaved  parent's  pain, 

JTis  when  you  sing  of  dear  ones  gone  to  rest, 

I  feel  each  fibre  vibrate  in  my  breast. 

Alas !  too  well,  bereavement's  pangs  I  know  ; 

Too  well,  a  parent's  and  a  husband's  woe. 

To  crown  the  numerous  blessings  of  my  life, 

I  had  sweet  children  and  a  lovely  wife. 

All  seem'd  so  firm,  so  ordered  to  endure, 

That,  fool !  I  fancied  all  around  secure. 

Heav'n  seem'd  to  smile  ;  Hope  whisper'd  to  my  heart, 

These  love-wrought  ties  shall  never  rudely  part ; 

But  Time,  with  slow  advance  and  gentle  hand, 

Shall  loosen,  one  by  one,  each  sacred  band. 

The  old  shall Jirst  drop  peaceful  in  the  tomb, 

And  leave  the  young  to  Jill  their  vacant  room. 


214  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Life's  pleasures  sliall  not  wither  at  a  Now, 

But  quiet  pass,  with  mild  decay  and  slow. 

The  buoyant  joys  of  youth,  so  bright  and  fair, 

Like  rainbow  tints,  shall  mellow  into  air. 

But  sad  reality  has  prov'd  how  vain 

This  faithless  prospect  of  a  dreaming  brain. 

Death's  icy  hand,  within  three  fleeting  years, 

Has  chang'd  this  scene  of  bliss  to  sighs  and  tears. 

One  lovely  innocent  was  snatch'd  away  — 

A  rose-bud,  not  half-open'd  to  the  day  — 

I  saw  my  wife,  then,  to  the  grave  descend, 

Beloved  of  my  heart,  my  bosom  friend. 

So  interwoven  were  our  joys,  our  pains, 

That,  as  I  weeping  follow'd  her  remains, 

I  thought  to  tell  her  of  the  mournful  scene  — 

I  could  not  realize  the  gulph  between. 

This  was  not  all ;  there  was  another  blo\v 

Reserv'd  to  put  the  finish  to  my  woe. 

A  sweet  endearing  creature  perish'd  last, 

In  youth's  first  spring,  all  childhood's  dangers  past 

Oh !  awful  trial  of  religion's  power, 

To  see  a  suffering  innocent's  last  hour ! 


TO    SOUTHEY. 

But  mark  me  well  —  I  would  not  change  one  jot 

Of  Heaven's  decrees,  to  meliorate  my  lot : 

Farewell  to  earthly  bliss,  to  all  that's  bright ! 

No  thought  rebels  ;  I  know,  I  feel  'tis  right. 

Nor  should  I  mourn  as  though  of  all  bereft  : 

Some  transient  pleasures,  here  and  there,  are  left ; 

Some  short-liv'd  flowers  that  in  the  forest  bloom, 

And  scatter  fragrance  in  the  settled  gloom. 

I  look  not  round,  and  peevishly  repine, 

As  though  no  other  sorrow  equall'd  mine. 

I  boast  no  proud  preeminence  of  pain  — 

But  oh  !  these  spectres  that  infest  my  brain  ! 

My  death-struck  child,  with  nostrils  breathing  wide, 

Turning  in  vain,  for  ease,  from  side  to  side ; 

The  fitful  flush  that  lit  her  half-closed  eye, 

And  burned  her  sunken  cheek  ;  her  plaintive  cry ; 

Her  dying  gasp  ;  and,  as  she  sank  to  rest, 

Her  wither'd  hands  cross'd  gently  o'er  her  breast. 

My  dying  wife's  emaciated  form, 

So  late,  with  youthful  spirit  fresh  and  warm. 

The  deep,  but  noiseless  anguish  of  her  mind 

At  leaving  all  she  lov'd  on  earth  behind. 


215 


216  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

The  silent  tear  that  down  her  cheek  would  stray, 

And  wet  the  pillow  where  resign'd  she  lay. 

Her  stiffen'd  limbs,  all  powerless  and  weak ; 

Her  clay-cold  parting  kiss  ;  her  pale  damp  cheek ; 

Her  awful  prayer  for  mercy,  at  the  last, 

Fainter  and  fainter,  till  her  spirit  pass'd  — 

The  image  of  the  next  lov'd  sufferer  too 

Is  ever,  ever  present  to  my  view. 

Her  ceaseless  cough  —  her  quick  and  panting  breath, 

With  all  the  dreadful  harbingers  of  death. 

No  anxious  mother  watching  at  her  side, 

To  whisper  consolation  as  she  died. 

Oh  !  do  not  ask  me  why  I  thus  complain 
To  you  a  stranger,  far  across  the  main  — 
Bear  with  a  bleeding  heart  that  loves  to  tell 
Its  sorrows,  and  on  all  its  pangs  to  dwell. 
A  strange  relief  the  mourner's  bosom  knows 
In  clinging  close  and  closer  to  its  woes. 
In  unheard  plaints  it  consolation  finds 
And  weeps  and  murmurs  to  the  heedless  winds. 

THE    END. 


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